


From Which Love Grows

by Red_Chapel



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fairy Tale Elements, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-15
Updated: 2013-03-17
Packaged: 2017-12-05 08:16:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 25
Words: 54,520
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/720866
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Red_Chapel/pseuds/Red_Chapel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>If this were an ordinary fairy tale, it would start with ‘once upon a time’<br/>and a princess or a dragon or a poor fisherman by the sea.<br/>But this is not an ordinary fairy tale and it starts with a seed.</p>
  <p>A seed From Which Love Grows.</p>
  <p>
Chinese translation by the fabulous middayxiansheng at<br/>
http://221dnet.211.30i.cn/bbs/forum.php?mod=viewthread&tid=2299&extra=&page=1<br/>
(ID: VIPGUEST; passcode: 221dnet)</p>
</div>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Seed

**Author's Note:**

> From a prompt on the LJ Sherlock BBC Kink Meme:  
> "Sherlock receives a seed for a job. From it he grows John. "  
> (No, actually, it's not crack.)

‘Mr Holmes, I simply don’t have the words to express my gratitude to you.’

‘No need, Ms Voigt. The case was an interesting one. I might thank you for bringing it to my attention.’ Sherlock granted his hostess a quick smile. The case had been interesting, an actual challenge, not like most of the chaff he’d got from Scotland Yard lately. But now that it was over and the offending party on his way through the justice system, Sherlock was anxious to be done with both it and Greta Voigt. All he needed was to find a cab and get back to his flat and the experiments he’d left to take on the case.

But Ms Voigt was still chattering on.

‘And you know… Well, I told you, and you can see…’ Her wave took in the sparse, worn furnishings and dingy walls of her flat, sadness and guilt taking over her normally happy expression. ‘Money’s been so short’, she finished quietly.

‘Ms Voigt, as I said when I took your case, I don’t require compensation. Just as true today as it was on Wednesday, I assure you.’ He flashed another tight, practised smile, and reached to shake her hand, hoping the gesture would be accepted for its finality.

‘Yes, yes, of course, Mr Holmes, but you must allow me to give you something for all your trouble.’ She took his hand and held it in both her own, drawing him towards her kitchen. ‘Running all over London and halfway to Canterbury and back. Your transportation expenses alone… Well. And you found Robert so quickly.’ Sorrow and disgust mingled on her face a moment before her earnest smile returned. ‘Please, just a little something.’

They were standing now beside the tiny kitchen table, two chairs tucked close under it so as not to block the fraction of space left to move in. Letting go of his hand at last, the woman opened a cupboard above her and drew out several jars.

‘You were so kind as to compliment me on the honey my bees produce. It’s rare to meet anyone in London with an interest in keeping bees. You simply must come back this summer and see my little roof-top garden and the hives in their full glory.’ She smiled broadly now, pleasure and pride in her voice and eyes. ‘So unusual to find someone that can even recognize a hive around here. Most of the neighbours just think I’m dotty and worry that their kids’ll get stung. As if they could, holed up in their flats all day watching telly and playing games on their mobiles. Most of them wouldn’t recognize a bee even if it did sting them.’

She paused, focusing her attention on lining up the jars on the counter. All of a size, calico-print fabric tacked to their lids, labelled and dated in careful handwriting.

‘So I thought, of course, you might like a bit of honey. It’s the one form of gold that’s always been in plenty in my home.’ She beamed up at him and held out a jar. ‘This is from last year—you liked it quite well the other day. And these two are from the year before; different flowers so there’s going to be a different taste there, but it was a very good year.’ She looked expectantly at him.

Sherlock thought a moment, then took the jar from her hand, a slight upturn of his lips betraying his pleasure at this gift. It had been _very_ good honey she had served with tea on his first visit. Surprisingly flavourful, not at all like the bland _syrups_ the shops carried in those ridiculous bear-shaped jars, cartoon bees buzzing about the labels. Real honey from real bees.

‘Well, yes.’ His face warmed further as he held the jar to catch the light. ‘Yes, I suppose I wouldn’t mind taking a jar or two. Your bees do generate a worthy product.’

‘Oh, they certainly do. Hard workers they are and no complaints from them either. “Admirable creatures”, as you said.’ Her face relaxed into a smile again, displaying her relief that he would accept this modest payment. ‘I hope you get the chance to keep your own hives someday. Though, mind, you don’t need a fancy garden in the country to keep bees and make a worthy product. Just a little corner and a bit of dirt to put there. I’d be happy to help you set up a small hive to start with whenever you’d like.’

Sherlock dropped the jar into his coat pocket and happily added the promise to the list of Grateful-Client Favours he kept in his head; they were his favourite form of currency. He started to place another jar into his pocket, paused, then placed the jars back on the counter, frowning. ‘Not soon, I’m afraid, but someday. Do you have an old newspaper?’

‘’Course, yes. And let me just get you a sack for those.’ As he began to wrap the jars so they wouldn’t jostle each other, she moved to her sitting room and pulled a file of envelopes from a bookcase. ‘Those jars should keep you for a while’, she called to him. ‘And don’t think you can’t come back for more any time you please. But’, she added, returning to the kitchen with a small buff envelope in her hand, ‘I don’t think you should wait to start working on your own. Why, the right flowers and the bees will find you, even in the heart of London.’ She laughed lightly.

‘I’m afraid I don’t have the space to grow anything.’ He visualized his flat: boxes full of case files stacked along the walls, every horizontal surface filled with experimental apparatus, and so little light. Such a dark hole he had fallen into after getting booted from his last place.

‘Oh, not even a little window box? A pot out on the fire escape?’ She was fixing the envelope to the top of one of the jars.

‘What’s this?’ he asked, running his fingers over the tiny packet. A bean-sized lump met his touch.

‘A seed to start you off with’, she said brightly, turning to him. ‘Now, this is very easy to grow… a little water and some sunlight… why you could throw a bit of dirt in a teacup and grow this little gem! No fuss at all, it’ll practically care for itself, you wait and see’, she went on.

‘Just one?’ he asked, amused and bemused at once.

She levelled a serious gaze at him and assured: ‘One should be all you need, Mr Holmes.’

So Sherlock had taken the seed and the honey, the promise and the thanks, then got a cab and returned to the dark, cramped flat on Montague Street.


	2. The Man

Two weeks later, winter had refused to release its grasp on London, a sleet-bearing gale driving March in like a pride of lions. Sherlock flung wide his flat’s one working window and let the freezing drops pelt his face a moment, their sting nothing to the burning in his lungs. He choked on the foul air in his flat, the fumes from his latest experiment drifting by him. He watched the yellowish haze trail out the window, taking with it any hope he might have had of his landlord renewing his lease. The explosion, while contained, could hardly have been missed. And there it was: the angry pounding of Henderson’s footsteps on the stairs. In another moment the wretched man would be shouting through the door. At least he’d stopped calling emergency services when Sherlock’s experiments got a bit out of hand.

Lungs nearly clear of the noxious gas that still hung thick in the room, Sherlock held his breath and crossed to the door. He opened it just as the purple-faced landlord crested the landing.

‘Not to worry, Mr Henderson, I’m perfectly fine’, Sherlock assured through his plastic smile. ‘Flat’s fine, too.’

‘I told you, Holmes, no more of this’, Henderson rumbled, heavy jowls flapping about his face as he shook his head and finger at Sherlock. ‘No more acid eating through the counter tops. No more blobs of foam oozing down the stairs. No more fires or floods and especially No. More. Explosions!’

‘I presume your rhetorical style is exempt from the ban on explosions?’ Sherlock quipped.

‘You WILL be out of here by week’s end!’ The man was winding himself nearly as much on his exhortations as he had on the stairs.

A few stray wisps of the miasma had begun to waft through the doorway. Sherlock moved forward, forcing his landlord’s bulk backwards, and closed the door behind him. While it wouldn’t have pained him to see the man keel over from the toxic fumes, it wouldn’t help his situation any.

‘I have a lease through the end of June’, he protested. ‘You can’t just throw me out.’

‘I can if you’ve violated that lease.’

‘There was nothing in the lease specifically prohibiting explosions’, Sherlock explained calmly. ‘I checked before signing, I assure you.’

‘I assure you, Holmes’, Henderson continued his rant, ‘you’ve violated the lease. Repeatedly. Without remorse. And I have every other tenant in this building to back me up on that. You’re out by Saturday midnight or I’ll have the coppers in here to deal with you!’

With a final glare at Sherlock, the man turned and puffed his way down the stairs. Sherlock stared after him a moment, considering how he might dispose of a body that large. Deciding the matter unworthy of his attention, he went back into the flat, carefully holding his breath until he’d reached the open window.

He contemplated his circumstances. His landlord would, no doubt, carry through with his threat of police intervention. Every man had his limit and Sherlock recognized that Henderson had just reached his. So, four days to gather his belongings and get out. He turned back to the room (most of the yellow cloud had dissipated; the air should be safe to breathe again) and frowned at those belongings.

Boxes, beakers, two empty take-away containers; more books than he could remember purchasing; a stained and threadbare armchair; his skull. He sighed. A few years ago it would have been so easy to escape from his concern for the material, but—unlike Henderson, that inferior lout—he wasn’t quite to his limit. He wasn’t prepared to waste four and a half years of sobriety just yet.

The window behind him rattled as the wind howled in, a small shower of sleet falling dangerously near the violin case on the floor there. He grabbed up the case and looked about for another place for it. As he did, he noticed a half-empty jar of honey on the bookcase. He put the violin on the top shelf, combining stacks of papers to make room, then picked up the honey.

His frown relaxed as he opened the jar and dipped his finger in. He drew up a line, inhaling the sweetness, and flicked his tongue out to interrupt the amber flow into the jar below. He let it drizzle onto his tongue, closed his eyes, tasted summer. Brought finger to tongue and licked it clean, smelled heathers and thyme and roses, felt the warm breeze ruffling his curly mop of hair. Sherlock dipped into the honey again, repeated the tongue flick, the drizzle, the sucking clean of his finger, saw the hives, the bees swarming about Mother in her long gloves and net-covered hat. He could just discern the sound of her tuneful hum from the drone of the bees. A happy tune, like it always was Before—

The window rattled under another onslaught of wind-borne sleet and he sighed heavily, back at Montague Street once more. The air cleared, he closed the window and set about making tea. It would warm him up and allow him a proper enjoyment of the honey.

With his cuppa and his laptop he settled into the shabby armchair to look through estate agents’ listings. Perhaps there was something tolerable that he could afford.

Sherlock found several listings that suited in a variety of ways. Some were in a good location, others had a pleasing look, and some few even fit his budget. None came close to meeting all of his requirements, especially in the matter of price. And why should it cost so bloody much to live somewhere decent? He was near to giving up in disgust for the evening when he decided to dial the number given for some flats in Baker Street. They were out of his price range, but the prime location might be enough to draw a flatmate who would otherwise not be foolish enough to share with him.

‘Hello?’ answered an elderly female voice.

‘Hello. This is Sherlock Holmes. I’ve just noticed your listing for a—’

‘Sherlock? Sherlock, is that really you? Oh, it must be, there can’t be another Sherlock Holmes in all of England’, the woman rambled happily. ‘Why, I didn’t think you’d even remember me. How did you get my number?’

Sherlock scanned his memory for possible identities for the woman as he spoke. ‘Well, of course I remember you’, he enthused. ‘And phone numbers aren’t exactly hard to find, you know, especially when you’ve listed them with the flats you’re looking to rent out.’

‘Oh, of course.’ She tittered lightly. ‘Is that what you’re calling about then? A flat? I’ve got a couple to rent, yes. Did you want to have a look? I’m on Baker Street now, but of course you know that from the listing, but I’m living here, too. Decided to invest the money once everything was settled, and I’d been wanting to move back to London. Oh, Florida was fine for a bit, but it was full of old people, you know, hardly any young folks thereabout, and I just didn’t feel quite right there.’

 _Ah!_ Yes, he remembered her. He certainly remembered her and his first (so far only) case in America.

‘Well, I’m so glad you’re back in London, Mrs Hudson. Best to leave Florida and all that business behind you, I’m sure. Perhaps I could come ’round tomorrow and catch up, take a look at those flats of yours.’


	3. The Place

She showed him 221C first but, despite the lower price, he felt it wouldn’t do at all. Too dark and damp, worse than his current place as that was only dark. It was bigger, though, and if the upstairs flat turned out to be not so much better and was that much more expensive, well… But then she showed him up the stairs and opened the door and Sherlock saw the sun streaming in through the windows, amber-gold light highlighting each mote of dust and he could almost smell the sunshine it was so brilliant.

Sherlock crossed the room and flung open a window—it worked and he was willing to bet the other did, too—despite the freezing temperatures outside, drawing a disapproving cluck from Mrs Hudson. He spun around the empty flat, taking in the feel of it. A fireplace in the sitting room. A kitchen—not just a collection of miniaturized appliances—with enough room to set up some proper experiments. Down the hall a bedroom large enough to hold a bed and a person besides. And in the bathroom, a tub! A man his height could never stretch out in a tub that size, but he could sit and soak and not have to take his showers hunched over because the spray barely reached up to his chest.

Mrs Hudson read his grin easily. ‘I take it you like it, then.’

‘Yes, I think this could be very nice, very nice indeed’, he pronounced, placing furnishings in his mind. He’d have to acquire a few things; that old armchair wasn’t coming with him and a real desk would be useful.

As if reading his mind, Mrs Hudson said, ‘There’s another room upstairs I’ve been using for storage. There was some furniture left from the last occupants, nothing special but all quite serviceable if there’s anything you need. You could bring down whatever you liked.’

‘I could use a few things. Just until I can afford new’, he added, folding his grin and putting on his best embarrassedly hopeful face. ‘There is the matter of the price…’

‘Oh? Oh, Sherlock, are you still not taking money for your cases? You should, you know; what else are you going to live on?’ She hesitated, finger tapping lightly against her cheek. ‘Well, I suppose I could take a bit off all things considered. Just to start with, mind. Until you’ve got yourself sorted.’

‘Could you, Mrs Hudson? I’d be so grateful.’ And the look that had never failed with a woman of her age worked yet again. They discussed particulars and Sherlock left Baker Street having signed a lease and moved two chairs down from the storage room. If he could combine a little economy with Mrs Hudson’s generosity, he could make this work. Really, he’d never been so glad to meet an old client.

The next night Sherlock was settling fully and comfortably into the flat at 221B Baker Street. _And good riddance to Henderson and his jowl-flapping rants._ The furniture from upstairs was, as Mrs Hudson had said, serviceable if nothing special (though discovering a sofa long enough to accommodate him comfortably was a moment of delight in a day of lugging boxes through the streets and up the stairs). His moving crew—several members of his homeless network guaranteed a hot meal in a cold snap—hadn’t complained about the many boxes of books and papers and had been appropriately grateful for the food. And bless Mrs Hudson for helping with that and baking a cake besides. (‘Just this once’, she’d said. ‘I’m your landlady, not your housekeeper.’) Once he’d reclaimed his skull from where she’d hidden it during the supper break, he felt rather at home.

Now all he needed was money for the rent. While pondering possible sources of income, he distributed his possessions and the borrowed furniture around the flat. He filled the kitchen cupboards with beakers and Petri dishes and set the Bunsen burners and microscope on the table there. He started organizing case notes on the desk and set the skull back on the mantel.

‘She’s right, I suppose’, he said to it. ‘I should charge. Something. Occasionally. It’s just so—’ and his mobile rang. Lestrade. _A case!_


	4. A Visitor

Sherlock returned to unpacking three days later. On one of his frenetic flights up or down the stairs during that time, Mrs Hudson had called out something about getting the place in order, and he’d noticed some of the more obvious items—books, mostly—set in their rightful places. A few hours work and the rest was sorted.

He sat himself in the grey chair near the fireplace and surveyed his new domain. Several things had struck him during the unpacking.

First, he had no food. Generally not an issue as he wasn’t a big eater and take-away was more convenient than cooking. However, the economy he’d promised himself on moving in included, he knew, doing the shopping and preparing meals on his own. There were, of course, those Grateful Clients in the restaurant business, but even a carefully-planned circuit designed to spread free meals over the lot of them would ultimately end in some feelings of abuse. Even Angelo would eventually object, and pasta wasn’t exactly expensive.

Next, there was the matter of his clothes. He had plenty, although more than half of his closet was filled with the costume components sometimes necessary for his work. His favoured suits were beginning to show some wear, due no doubt to there being only a few, worn repeatedly and not always gently. He would dearly love to replenish his wardrobe, but the mild Mr Jenkins, a tailor who had happily repaid Sherlock for the recovery of an antique darning needle with exquisitely fashioned menswear, had suffered a stroke just two months ago. ‘Old Jenkins won’t be doing much sewing from the bed of a nursing home. Don’t suppose you’re any good with a needle?’ he queried the skull.

As he spoke, the street door below thudded shut, followed shortly by a slow, measured step on the stairs. A step Sherlock knew too well, despite the distance he had tried to keep between it and himself. Jaw clenched in fury, he stood and crossed quickly to the door, throwing it open as the rising figure reached the landing half-way up.

‘What are you doing here?’ he barked out. _Really must remember to warn Mrs Hudson against letting in certain types. In full kit, too, the smug git._ Mycroft wore evening dress. His fine suit needed no repair, nor did the soft woollen coat draped over his arm. _Stopping off on his way to some ridiculous political function just to harass me and show off his finery. Bastard._

‘And good evening to you, Sherlock’, Mycroft replied, smiling serenely up at his younger brother. He continued his steady pace, punctuated by the click of his umbrella’s tip on every other riser. He came to a stop on the landing before Sherlock, took in everything he needed to know of his brother in one swift, amused glance, then attempted to move past Sherlock and into the sitting room.

‘Don’t even think of it’, Sherlock warned.

Mycroft tilted his head, raised an eyebrow, and slipped sideways through the kitchen door.

‘Out!’ Sherlock swung around within the flat to intercept the intruder, but Mycroft was already standing in the archway between kitchen and lounge, his eyes lightly skimming the details of his brother’s new home.

‘Well, this is much more pleasant than your last lair.’ He began a leisurely circuit around the kitchen. Sherlock fought with himself over whether to glare at him or to look pointedly away. Concern for what those hands might take up or leave behind won out, and he stared angrily the length of Mycroft’s path.

‘Are you unfamiliar with the meaning of the word “out”?’ Sherlock asked in taut tones, his body sharp and ready.

‘Quite familiar, I assure you.’ Mycroft flashed a wicked and patronizing smile as he opened cupboard doors and drew a finger across the counter top. ‘You seem rather well-acquainted with it as well. Out of funds’—a glance into the refrigerator—‘out of food.’ His long, prim strides aimed him to the sitting room. Sherlock nearly pounced into his favoured chair lest his brother occupy it; Mycroft placed his coat over the back of the plump armchair opposite and relaxed into the seat. ‘I would say out of friends, too, but you never really seemed to have any of those to be out of.’ He watched his hand twirl his umbrella beside the chair a moment, then returned his gaze to his brother. ‘Fortunately, you still have family.’

‘None that have ever done me any good’, Sherlock responded lowly, envisioning a knife pricking into the flesh just above Mycroft’s crisp shirt collar.

‘I know you considered the drug rehabilitation program evil, but tuition, room, and board at university—’

‘It was only tuition.’

‘You refused the room and board.’

‘You refused to make it anywhere but your flat.’ Other brothers would have been shouting by now, but not the Holmeses. Each word was spoken in careful, quiet tones.

Mycroft sighed and considered his fingernails. ‘Tedious. The same childish arguments every time.’

‘If you find me tedious, I wonder that you keep haunting me.’

‘The living don’t haunt, Sherlock’, Mycroft stated as if explaining to a schoolboy. ‘Only the dead do.’

‘You’re enough like him you might as well be his ghost’, Sherlock accused.

Mycroft straightened in the chair. ‘If by that you mean that I am sensible enough to take advantage of the opportunities presented to me: thank you.’

‘“Take advantage”—yes, he was good at that, wasn’t he? Take, use, cast aside what remained, and on to the next “opportunity”.’

Mycroft blinked slowly, gave his umbrella one soft tap against the floorboards. Round one over.

‘I came to offer you employment.’

‘Sure you want to get back to the tedium so quickly? Don’t want to take a break and discuss something else? How’s the diet?’ Sherlock grinned.

‘Fine’, Mycroft assured him with a hand settling on his waist. ‘It’s not a permanent position—nothing so mundane as regular hours and pay. Just a little investigation I’m sure you could handle.’

‘Not interested.’

‘I haven’t even told you what it is.’

‘Nothing that you offer could ever interest me. Now get out.’

Mycroft levelled a hard look at Sherlock, then stood. ‘Perhaps’, he said, taking up his coat and turning to the door, ‘you will someday realize how useless it is to blame me for another man’s sins.’

‘Perhaps someday you’ll realize your own sins’, Sherlock hissed as Mycroft crossed to the open door.

‘He was my father— _our_ father. Growing up in his household can hardly be considered a sin.’

‘And breaking Mother’s heart?’

‘I didn’t think matters of the heart affected you.’ Mycroft assumed a curious look.

‘They affected her.’ Mycroft did not speak the words he had only once been foolish enough to utter in his brother’s presence— _That was_ her _weakness._ —but they rang still in Sherlock’s ears.

Sherlock closed his eyes, steepled his fingers under his chin. Did not see the pity on Mycroft’s face as he turned and left. When the street door had once again thudded shut, Sherlock rose, took up his violin, and gave full voice to his anger.


	5. The Flower

Mrs Hudson made frequent intrusions into his flat, popping in at odd times to ask if he was settling in alright or to wonder if Sherlock had noticed a particular news item. She was chatty and curious, but her appearances were usually accompanied by freshly baked biscuits and a cup of tea, and she was willing to pick up milk and beans for him when she did her own shopping, so Sherlock swallowed his complaints.

Her first ‘official’ visit was of the biscuit-bearing variety, made two days after Mycroft’s and one day after Sherlock informed her that she was never to admit that man into the building again. (She assured him she hadn’t let him in the first time.) She settled herself into the same chair Mycroft had and, in the midst of a recital of what she had learned from that day’s shows, interrupted herself to make what would come to be her most often voiced complaint: the skull’s presence. She seemed to take particular offence to it. _Perhaps it’s to do with her late husband’s avocation?_ Sherlock mused.

‘It’s a bit morbid, dear, don’t you think?’ she asked. ‘Really, you get so much of that sort of thing in your work; I’d think you’d want to come home to something a bit more cheerful.’

‘You simply don’t understand its sense of humour’, Sherlock asserted, taking another biscuit.

She looked thoughtful a moment and then her face set with decision.

‘What are you thinking?’ he asked warily, though he already knew.

‘Oh, nothing’, she assured, waving away his concern. ‘Never mind me. Now you eat those biscuits—you’re thin as a rail and like to get blown away in all the wind we’ve been having this spring.’ He bit into the biscuit to avoid scowling at the soft, motherly look on her face.

The following afternoon, Sherlock opened the door into the sitting room to proof of her first clandestine visit. A plant was sitting on the table in front of the sofa. He stared at it. Approached slowly. Looked into its blossoms, leaned over, and sniffed. Stepped back. _Mrs Hudson,_ he sighed to himself. _Can’t she just leave well enough alone?_

He looked to the skull shelved with his books across the room. ‘Not exactly much of a deterrent to intruders, are you?’ he accused, moving to grab up the offensively yellow chrysanthemum. He intended to throw pot and all into the bin, but hesitated. Nearly half of his first month’s rent was still due—that skinflint Henderson hadn’t returned a penny of his deposit. _Damages, indeed._ Despite having given Mrs Hudson what he could, he was sure it was best to get in her good graces any way possible, even if it meant putting up with—this. He set the pot back down. At least it wasn’t as foul an intrusion into his décor as he’d worried she would come up with.

‘Remind me to thank her and compliment her on the selection later.’ He threw his jacket onto the sofa, then moved to the kitchen to set out the Erlenmeyers and tubing for his latest experiment.

With the inevitability of rain in London, two weeks of Sherlock’s company left the plant in a sorry state. It migrated from the table (in the way of his path from sofa to desk) to a window seat (people looking up from the street might get the wrong idea) to the mantel (not really deep enough to hold it) to the kitchen table with the rest of his experiments.

Once there, it became just another test subject for Sherlock. He snipped off leaves, buds, and blossoms to drop them into a variety of liquids or to dissect them, always noting the outcome in his log. He undertook no serious study of the plant; subjecting it to random tests while waiting for results from his real work simply distracted him. Eventually, a pot of dirt with bits of browned stems poking up sat by the bin waiting for removal.

 

 _Bored._ Thoroughly, mind-numbingly, to the core of his being, no end to it in sight, bored.

Sherlock trailed his hand across the floorboards, nails catching on the same ridges that they had the last sixteen times he’d done it today as he lay on the sofa, glaring alternately at the ceiling, the walls, and the door. _Why does no one walk through it with a case?!_

He had no case from the Met—Lestrade was buried in paperwork from the Herlanger murders. He had no case from his website— _perhaps a few idiots out there have finally managed to help themselves?_ He had no active experiments—the pliant ME at Bart’s was on holiday through the weekend, leaving Sherlock with none but blatantly illegal means of obtaining the tissues he just now required. Everything else was just—boring.

With a groan, he heaved himself off the sofa and upright, surveying the room. Just as dull from this angle. He strolled to the kitchen, lingered over the apparatus waiting there for liver samples. ‘Have to speak to Molly about notifying me in advance of her holidays’, he declared, disgruntled. He eyed the skull atop the refrigerator (out of Mrs Hudson’s reach). ‘Remind me of that Monday morning. Tea?’

He set the kettle to boil and got out a cup _(probably clean)_ , tea bag, and honey jar. Empty. He drew the next jar from the cupboard and eyed the forgotten envelope that Greta Voigt had taped to its lid. Sighing, he tore open the packet and considered that lone seed within.

‘Well, it’s something’, he stated.

He placed on the counter the flower pot that hadn’t yet made it to the bins. A teaspoon was pressed into service as a trowel to remove the stub of the old and make a shallow hole for the new. He dropped in the seed, covered it, and soaked the parched dirt with several small beakers of tap water, then took it to the sitting room. Placing the pot on the window ledge, he commanded it, ‘Grow.’

Back in the kitchen he took up the empty jar to scrape a finger around its inside, chasing the last bits it contained. He took the whole lean digit into his mouth, sucking and tonguing it clean. Closing his eyes, Sherlock inhaled deeply the honey’s sweet aroma. He kicked his dangling feet against the stool legs and twisted his plate in circles on the counter before him. He didn’t want to waste the honey-smeared toast—wasting was the worst thing you could do with food, he knew that—but there was simply no room for it in his stomach beside the worry that chased circles round itself there. He was going to be late for school and might not be able to read out his report on _C. elegans_ to the class. It was a good report, and his classmates were so ignorant—they needed to learn what he could teach them. But Mother wasn’t ready to walk him to school; she hadn’t finished crying yet. It seemed to take her longer every morning and on school days it just wouldn’t do. Sherlock resolved to reset the alarm on her clock—fifteen minutes earlier should be enough. And he would make Mother’s tea himself to save time! He jumped off the stool and pushed it to the sink so he could reach to fill the kettle with water. Once that was on the stove (Mother would forgive him for using the stove by himself when she saw how helpful he was being), he climbed up the stool again to gather cup and tea. He sat back down to wait for the sound of the bedroom door opening that would signal Mother’s readiness to go about her day. When the kettle whistled, Sherlock swayed and caught himself on the kitchen counter, surprised to find himself standing. He made his tea, stirred in the honey, and returned to the sitting room to stare out the window, not quite seeing Baker Street below.

Twenty minutes of staring later, he dumped the tepid remains of his tea into the flower pot and threw himself onto the sofa. _Bored._

 

Despite Sherlock’s haphazard tending of the seed (it was mostly watered with tea dregs and otherwise forgotten on the ledge), there appeared some days later a hint of green curled in on itself, trying to poke through the dirt and stretch toward the sunlight. A few days more and it had succeeded. Sherlock gave so little consideration to the plant that he’d barely registered its short, broad leaves before a lone stalk drew itself up from its nest of green, bowed its head, and presented a bud.

‘Well, Mrs Hudson should approve’, he stated. ‘We have a flower in here after all.’ The skull looked unimpressed from its place on a high bookshelf. ‘I should have used you for a planter. Maybe then she’d approve of you, too.’ The skull returned Sherlock’s grin with its usual stoicism.

As flowers went, the blossom, once open, was moderately charming—or so Sherlock would have thought if he’d been given to such absurd notions. It hung, bell-like, from a sturdy, dark green shoot, the smooth cerulean petal tips flared slightly outward. The sole bloom on the entire plant, it was no bigger than the first joint of Sherlock’s thumb.

The bees seemed to take its presence as an invitation. He wasn’t sure how they found their way to it—perhaps they were coming from Regent’s Park? Or did one of his near neighbours have hidden roof-top hives as Greta Voigt did? Regardless of their origin, a few honey bees had occasionally appeared outside the window, bumping against the glass, obviously set on its nectar.

One balmy May day, Sherlock obligingly drew up the sash for the day’s visitors. Within moments, one had flown in and gone to work investigating the flower’s inner reaches, gathering pollen as it went. Sherlock watched fixedly the entire time. He briefly considered trapping the insect for study under the microscope, but he was pleasantly drowsy from the warmth and sunshine and disinclined to move, so he dismissed the idea and continued to watch as the bee made several expeditions within before zipping off to visit Mrs Turner’s window boxes next door.


	6. The Work

‘Where is it?’ Sherlock cast a glare toward the skull perched on the window ledge. He’d already wasted three minutes searching for his pocket magnifier. ‘Anderson’s probably destroyed all the real evidence at the scene by now.’ Not by his laptop, not on the table, not in a desk drawer, not even between the sofa cushions.

He dashed down the hall to his bedroom where he rifled through papers, shook out the sheets, and yanked open bureau drawers, re-emerging as annoyed as he’d entered.

‘Nowhere. Damn it!’

Another minute lost to peering in and around and under every bit of labware on the kitchen table.

‘Ridiculous.’ He gritted his teeth. ‘I just had it last night.’ He’d stalked back into the sitting room, eyes flashing over every surface. And there it lay on the desk, empty space surrounding it, impossible to miss. Sherlock stopped, stared a quick moment, then grabbed up the offending object with a scowl and flew down the stairs.

Sherlock jumped out of the taxi and paused to pay the driver. A hasty fumbling through his pockets had produced enough to cover the fare and not make him appear a complete miser when it came to tipping. On turning to see Anderson, as silly as ever in head-to-toe disposable jumpsuit and booties, he stood just a fraction taller, let his stride carry him with a hint more confidence. The rat-faced man had just opened his mouth to address him when Sherlock sailed past, calling out in a masterly voice: ‘Lestrade. What do you have for me today?’

The DI turned to Sherlock. ‘My team’, he emphasized, ‘is investigating a missing cat. I thought you might like to help out.’ Lestrade smiled placidly. Sherlock stopped several paces from him.

‘You called me half-way across London for a missing cat?’ Sherlock spat. ‘Did you try looking up the nearest tree? Leaving a saucer of milk on the stoop, perhaps?’

‘More like the roast from Sunday dinner’, Lestrade offered, holding up a photograph. ‘Minus the roasting.’

Sherlock took the picture and his eyes widened slightly. _Perhaps a roast would be more appropriate._ This felid was no house cat, despite that its paws were resting delicately in the lap of an attractive middle-aged woman. He arched an inquiring brow at Lestrade.

As the DI recited the facts of the case as the Yard knew them—the pictured woman had bought the cougar from a ‘private dealer’ only three weeks before and had woken this morning to an open cage and no cat; in a panic at the thought of the beast roaming the streets, her husband had called the police, despite their lack of license for the animal—Sherlock scanned the house’s exterior for the more important facts that would solve the case. He noted also the tracking dogs just being unloaded, Donovan’s absence, and Anderson slipping into the rear entrance. Once inside the house, he allowed Lestrade to make introductions between him and the owners, then whipped out his magnifier and began scrutinizing the casing of the window over the animal’s cage, left open slightly overnights to let the cat’s scent dissipate.

‘And how would you rate your landscaper, Ms Evans?’ The owner looked up at him, startled.

‘I’m sorry—what?’

‘Your landscaper: any good?’ Sherlock turned to look at her, then out the window he’d been examining. ‘Would you recommend them?’ Ms Evans’s gaze followed his. ‘Just thinking of installing a hedge myself’, he added. ‘The work looks good, but of course there’s so much more to consider when selecting someone to work on one’s property. Were they professional? Punctual? Neat?’ He sank to his knees and pressed his face nearly to the floor.

Ms Evans’s look changed from confusion at the _non sequitur_ to annoyance.

‘Oh, they were professional, alright’, she snorted. ‘Professional procrastinators. Took them four weeks to get that bit done—they’d promised it would be five days on the outside. Lucky they finished when they did or I’d have started legal action against them. Might still’, she added, turning to Lestrade as if she expected him to arrest them for their tardiness.

‘Four weeks. Indeed.’ Sherlock moved to study the floor of the cougar’s cage.

‘And you took him for frequent walks outside?’

‘Who?’ she asked, confused again. ‘The landscaper?’

Sherlock sighed. ‘The cat’, he specified. ‘Did you walk him outside?’ he tried again, slowly.

‘Oh, no! No, of course not. I mean, he wasn’t licensed. Yet’, she amended, flushing beneath her heavy make-up and glancing again towards Lestrade.

‘But you did let him out of the cage regularly.’

‘Yes, he was free to roam the house during the day whenever we were in. He’s really quite docile, I assure you’, she insisted, looking between them both. ‘We only put him in the cage at night. The maid gets in early and the silly thing is afraid of poor Carabas.’

Sherlock stood and turned to face Ms Evans. ‘Just a quick look in a few rooms, if you don’t mind’, he stated, and moved through the nearest doorway.

After a brief circuit of the house, during which he made several abrupt stops to scrutinize odd corners and random furnishings, he took himself to the kitchen. Anderson was there, leaning against the worktable and indulging in a cup of coffee. Sherlock interrupted his awkward and clearly unwanted attempt to chat up the maid with an inquiry as to the cougar’s feeding schedule (‘I didn’t have anything to do with that, Inspector. I told them when they got that thing that I wasn’t going to have anything to do with it and I didn’t.’), then let himself out, distantly aware of Anderson’s assurances that ‘That freak’s no inspector and nothing to do with real police’. Outside, he walked carefully next to the recently built dirt paths, eyes narrowed, brain whirling, until he had covered seemingly every inch from the house to the park behind the rear yard. Lestrade stood near the window over the cougar’s cage, giving some orders to the dog handlers. Sherlock approached him and announced:

‘You can tell Atherton he can rest easily in his bed tonight, Lestrade.’

‘Atherton? You mean Evans—’

‘Oh, come now, Lestrade. Despite the exotic nature of the beast in question, I hardly think that a DI in the Serious Crimes division would be assigned to check into a missing cat. Unless, of course, that cat was suspected to have been stolen from—or worse, be on the loose in—the neighbourhood of, say, a Chief Superintendent in the Metropolitan Police Force. And I do believe that CS Atherton lives just down the block…’ Sherlock gestured behind him.

Lestrade sighed, considered the hedge he stood beside, and smirked.

‘Right. Thanks. I’ll let ’em know. Want to let me know why you think he can rest easy?’

‘Because the cat is well away from here and safely locked up by the smugglers—might even be going to its next owner by now. Certainly isn’t a threat in this neighbourhood.’

Lestrade gave Sherlock his usual _OK, now explain it_ look. Sherlock smiled.

‘It’s obvious from the marks on the path that the thief entered through this window, let the cat out of its cage, leashed it, put boots on its feet, and left by way of the same window, exiting the property through the back gate. The light woods there are perfect cover for both entering and leaving the area unnoticed by near neighbours. You should find tracks from the accomplice’s vehicle—small delivery van at a guess—on the other side of the park. The thief is certainly the exotics dealer himself or one of his animal handlers. You can get a name and description from Ms. Evans; her contact information for him will undoubtedly be out-of-date already, but I’ve a strong suspicion she’ll be able to identify him from mug shots taken on his previous arrests. Start looking among jewel thieves, second-story men, cat burglars, that sort. Combined with a description of the vehicle from the residents of the retirement village across the park and tyre impressions from where the removal vehicle sat waiting, you should be able to make an arrest within three days.’ He paused, then added: ‘Unless you insist on keeping Anderson on the case; add at least two days if you do.’

Sherlock grabbed his phone from his pocket and started toward the front walk. Lestrade took a moment to absorb the rapid-fire analysis, then turned to Sherlock just as he was stepping onto the flagstone path to the street. Lestrade was actually smiling just a bit.

‘That’s all quite nice and it’d be lovely if it worked out that way’, he called out, ‘but there’s just one question I’d like to ask, if you don’t mind.’

‘Only one?’ Sherlock spun, eyes focused on his mobile. ‘You’re improving, Lestrade.’

The DI suppressed an eye-roll in favour of a smirk that clearly said, _I’ve got you on this one, Holmes_.

‘You say it’s obvious from the tracks that the thief used this window. So, where are the footprints you’re relying on?’

‘There aren’t any’, Sherlock said, a ‘you idiot’ hanging in the air between them.

‘Right’, Lestrade returned in like tone. ‘So, if there aren’t any prints, how can you think he came in this way? The landscaping’s just been done; the dirt on this path is freshly raked. There’s not a mark on it.’ He rested with arms crossed before him.

‘How do you dress yourself in the morning?’ Sherlock took a deep breath, huffing out his frustration and walking back to Lestrade. ‘First of all, I did not say footprints; I said marks. And this path is by no means lacking in marks. The trails of the rake’s teeth are all over it. Now, compare the marks at the crown of the path to those on the sides.’ He hunched down, spread his fingers out rake-like. ‘Different width of mark, different depth of impression. The thief took advantage of the recent landscaping to obscure his tracks. The marks on the sides of the path are from the landscaper’s rake—they match the size and pattern of stroke on all of the other areas recently worked. The ones on the crown—where the thief walked—are not only wider apart but executed using a different pattern altogether. As he walked down the path, he raked out the signs of his steps and those of the cat. Check the woods and you might find some of his prints, but you can send the dogs home; the squirrel scent laid down with each step the cougar and the smuggler both took will undoubtedly confuse the dogs just as it was intended to.’ Sherlock stood. ‘Your time would be better spent getting Ms Evans to the Yard to go through photos and getting those tyre impressions before they’re obscured.’

‘Squirrel scent?’ Anderson exclaimed as he walked up, no doubt just given the final brush-off from the maid.

‘Of course’, Sherlock continued explaining to Lestrade. ‘The smuggler knew the cat was easily tracked by scent, if anyone was going to track it, so he soaked his own boots as well as those he put on the beast with the scent of a local animal, squirrel being the most likely choice. The dogs are useless here.’

Lestrade gaped at Sherlock. The DI hated the feeling he had in his stomach, the one that said that this pompous young genius was right. Suppressing a groan, he called out to the officer in charge of the dogs to remove them from the scene, then motioned Anderson to get on with his job. He turned back to Sherlock, the rest of the smugglers’ plans falling into place in his head.

‘This is a whole racket, isn’t it? That’s what you’re telling me: that the dealers deliver the animals and, in any home where it looks like they’ve got a good chance of it—particularly one where the owners haven’t got a special license for the animal and aren’t likely to report the loss—they steal it back and sell it again.’

Sherlock allowed Lestrade an approving look. ‘Very good, Detective Inspector. I’d say you’d find a fair number of unhappy owners of unlicensed exotics sprinkled throughout London.’

‘Don’t suppose you’d care to stick around through the end of this one?’ Lestrade offered. Sherlock considered, then nodded.

Sherlock’s final return trip up the stairs after that case was rather slower than his initial flight down. Four days of tracking the movements of smugglers—exotic pets were a surprisingly lucrative business, and Carabas hadn’t been the only animal recently gone missing—with little sleep and less food had left him exhausted and bleary-eyed. Even the thrill of success and a third and final opportunity to rattle off a series of brilliant deductions in front of Lestrade’s whole team at the case’s conclusion hadn’t been enough to buoy him for long. He entered through the kitchen, heading straight for the refrigerator, hoping to find something edible to sustain him through sleep until he could manage a decent breakfast.

He opened the door to—sandwiches? Several sandwiches, halved, piled on a plate, and covered in plastic wrap, a bottle of mustard next to them. _Yes, I did some shopping before the case, probably bought the makings for sandwiches. But when did I—?_

‘Mrs Hudson.’ Sherlock sighed in weary gratitude. ‘She does have her moments, doesn’t she?’ He settled himself at an unused corner of the table and devoured four halves before slumping down the hall to bed.

The next morning he rose late and made his way into the sitting room in pyjamas and dressing gown. Still sated by the sandwiches, he stopped in the kitchen only long enough to turn on the kettle. While waiting for it to boil, he made a half-hearted attempt to gather and sort some of the notes and paperwork he’d accumulated while working the smuggling case.

‘What I need is a PA. Any good at short-hand?’ If the skull had had eyes to roll, it would have done so then.

The kettle whistled and Sherlock returned to the kitchen to look for a clean cup. Finding none, he settled on a smallish beaker and made his tea, stirring in a bit of honey. He was nearing the end of the second jar. _Really will have to visit Ms Voigt again soon._ Back in the lounge, he stood before the window by the sofa and surveyed the mess his new flat had become: case notes strewn across desk and floor; books awaiting shelving on the spare armchair.

‘Forget the shorthand’, he commented. ‘I’ll settle for a hand with the tidying.’ Noticing the collection of tea-stained mugs near his feet— _so that’s where they’ve all got to_ —he added, ‘And the washing up.’ When he’d finished his tea, he tilted the dregs into the flower pot, smiled at the little blue blossom persisting against his disregard, added the beaker to the pile of cups, and took himself off to shower.


	7. An Intrusion

Sherlock quickly grew accustomed to Mrs Hudson’s mostly unobtrusive care of him. The occasional meal set in the refrigerator, a bit of tidying in the lounge, the plant always watered. And she seemed to have given up on stealing the skull. Of course, he saw the acts for what they were: first, the only outlet a lonely old woman with no one to fuss over had for her fussing; second, her silent kindnesses doubled as reminders of the much greater favour she was doing for him in the deal she’d given him on the rent. And that the rent was past due. He could appreciate her subtle manipulations.

Still, when he came home to a freshly laundered stack of clothes, Sherlock thought it time to draw a line. ‘I am perfectly capable of washing my own underclothes’, he ranted on his way back through the kitchen.

Downstairs, he knocked on her door and waited, carefully keeping his face calm. When she greeted him, his smile was ready.

‘Mrs Hudson. Thank you so much for the sandwiches last week; they were most welcome at the late hour I made it home.’ _Start with the positive._ ‘And the pasta last night, as well; the occasional reheatable meal can never go amiss. The tidying and hoovering are greatly appreciated and it’s really very kind of you to show such concern for my welfare, but I assure you’—and here his voice turned just a bit harsh, just a bit louder—‘I certainly don’t need you laundering my pants.’

Mrs Hudson looked up at him in annoyed confusion. ‘Why, Sherlock, whatever are you on about? I haven’t been hoovering or tidying or leaving you any kinds of food. And I certainly haven’t touched your pants!’ She spared a brief, offended glance toward his trousers, then looked him steadily in the eye. ‘Not your housekeeper, remember?’

Sherlock paused in unaccustomed confusion. Hands resting on hips, he shifted uncertainly. ‘You didn’t leave the sandwiches?’

‘What sandwiches?’

‘Or the pasta?’ Mrs Hudson pursed her lips and folded her arms.

‘You’ve done no hoovering? No dusting?’ His right hand fluttered through the air.

‘Only in the hall and my own flat’, she assured him. Sherlock’s face morphed from confusion through annoyance to anger.

‘Then who in the hell has had their hands on my underthings?!’ Mrs Hudson was unmoved by his outburst.

‘Well, I’m sure I don’t know, but if you find out, you might ask them for cash in lieu of services rendered. The rent was due eight days ago.’ She looked at him chidingly.

After a half second of being flustered, Sherlock promised that the rent would be paid soon and stalked away. As he turned the corner he heard her mumbled ‘Always figured him to be the boxers type’ and the click of her door. He gritted his teeth and returned upstairs.

There he began a thorough investigation into his own crime scene. Someone had broken into his flat, multiple times. Mrs Hudson was telling the truth; he could read that easily enough and, really, she had no reason to lie. But Sherlock was quite sure he wasn’t doing laundry in his sleep. He began on the stairs, looking for footprints crushed into the carpet. Only his own recently. In the sitting room he found others, though: by the size and relative width, they were a man’s—certainly not Mrs Hudson’s heels—although they indicated a very light individual. The person had obviously moved around the room repeatedly over a period of days. _Stupid! How could I not have noticed evidence of an intruder in my own flat? Me—I didn’t notice?_ He checked the laundry, pawing through the items and sniffing them all ( _detergent only, no fabric conditioner_ ), looking for trace fibres or shed strands of hair ( _none_ ).

Then he was in the kitchen, dusting for fingerprints. Only his own on the cupboard handles, the stove, the labware on the table, the pots he stored in the oven. It wasn’t until he examined the bottle of washing-up liquid that he found anything like a clue. On the surface of the bottle, pressed into the drips of sticky liquid trailing down its sides, there were noteworthy impressions: finger-sized, not prints, but certainly evidence of a gloved hand gripping the bottle. The fingers were thicker than his own but the hand span shorter.

Sherlock searched the bottle carefully, but there were only two partial, actual fingerprints, both from his own hand. So the dishwasher had worn gloves— _his/her own? Appropriated from my supply?_ He considered his meal last night—the pasta found in the refrigerator. He had only eaten half, heating it on a plate in the microwave, dirtying only a fork for eating. Both cleaned now. He dusted all four dinner plates in the cupboard—not a single print. Likewise all the cutlery. _Oh, he is good._

Next, Sherlock returned to the living room for a more thorough examination. The hardwood floor was well-swept—the intruder was a good housekeeper as well as—. Sherlock paused. In the centre of the room he slowly turned, eyes reaching every surface, every object, every recess. Nothing missing. Nothing moved from where he’d left it except to tidy. He rummaged through the desk drawers—every item accounted for. Ran his fingers under chair seats, over ledges, anywhere something might have been concealed. No bugs, no cameras. Having eaten three meals left by the mystery cook, he could attest that he was no poisoner.

The intruder was a good housekeeper. And nothing more.

Sherlock moved to his grey chair, meaning to ponder this splendid puzzle, but even as he lowered himself into it, his glance fell on the chair opposite and he had his answer. Not the chair’s last occupant—Mrs Hudson wasn’t reminding him the rent was due—but the only other person to have sat there thus far.

‘Mycroft.’ No curse had ever tasted so vile upon his lips.

Mycroft. Saying: _I can enter your flat, your life, any time I please, send someone to clean up after your little messes. I have the money, the power. Wouldn’t you like to live as I do, servants to tend to your needs and wishes?_ Worst of all: _You still need someone to look after you, little brother, and I’ll do it whether you like it or not._

_Insufferable git._

Sherlock grabbed his phone and fired off a text:

::Stop. Now. Neither need nor want your services. Never will. SH::

A reply came moments later:

::Flattered you still have this number. What am I to stop? Mycroft::

Sherlock scoffed at his brother’s ridiculous play at innocence and sent one more text before turning off his phone:

::Piss off!::

Mycroft did not piss off. After two days at home, Sherlock spent a long day in the lab at Bart’s. He returned to swept floors, sparkling tea cups, and a fresh plate of sandwiches. He stormed down the stairs and informed Mrs Hudson that he had not hired a cleaning service, nor had he given a copy of the flat key to anyone, and that she should not let anyone into his flat while he was out. Her attitude of bewildered annoyance was just as it had been the last time he’d shown up at her door. Again he believed her. Even if Mycroft were paying her to lie, he’d know.

The next morning Sherlock dressed in a T-shirt, hoodie, and jeans and spent three hours loitering on the steps of a building just down the street, attention fixed on the door to 221B. No one went in; no one went out. His surveillance was cut short by a call to one of DI Gregson’s crime scenes. _Probably too soon for a return visit anyway_ , he reasoned. He changed into his proper clothes and headed out.

Before returning home, he stopped at Bart’s and charmed the new young fellow in IT into the short-term loan of a laptop and two tiny cameras. Stake-outs were dull; much better to use remote surveillance. He could watch from the comfort of his lab bench at Bart’s, get work done at the same time, and still be able to make it back to the flat in time to nab the cleaner in the act. Even if he didn’t, he would have the recorded video file. Perfect for emailing to that interfering arse with whom he regrettably shared DNA.

Sherlock had been at his bench less than two hours when he first noted movement: camera 1, positioned on the desk and directed towards the sitting room door, finally gave form if not face to his ‘helper’. He saw the man cross the camera’s field, moving from somewhere behind the camera towards the kitchen. Seconds later, camera 2 showed the man’s profile as he passed the kitchen door.

Annoyed with himself for missing the intruder’s entrance— _how long has he already been there?_ —Sherlock slammed shut his laptop, turned off the chromatograph he’d been using, and ran from the lab. He couldn’t have taken too long to notice the trespasser so there should be plenty of time to catch him. If nothing else, the few extra tasks Sherlock had left should keep the fellow busy.

But not busy enough. Hardly busy at all. A quick sweep of the kitchen showed that the dishes remained untouched in the sink, the mustard jar had not been put away, and a pair of socks still lay under the table. In the sitting room, crumpled papers were scattered on the floor and the afghan lay in an artfully rumpled heap on one end of the sofa. The mess he’d arranged was just as he’d left it.

Thoroughly aggravated now, Sherlock went to check his bedroom. As he passed the bathroom, he saw what had occupied the cleaner today: all of the towels were properly hung to dry and the sink was uncharacteristically void of toothpaste. _But why walk by the obvious mess out there to do the bathroom? Why leave before finishing?_

Suspecting the futility of the act, Sherlock diligently dusted for prints throughout the bathroom. Nothing, of course. Just the same marks of glove prints. Even the washing-up gloves, still drying under the sink, bore no prints, inside or out. _Devilishly thorough in removing evidence. Must be wearing latex gloves under the marigolds and taking the latex ones with him._

Sherlock sat at the borrowed laptop to examine the video. At least he could get a look at this intruder. One of the cameras would show him full-on, walking through a doorway. Sherlock could print out a picture, distribute it among his homeless network, have them follow the man’s trail next time he left, perhaps, as well as show Mrs Hudson the person she was to keep out of the building.

Except that there was no scene of the man’s entry. The first time he appeared was when Sherlock had first seen him—when he passed the sitting room camera. From behind it. Repeated viewings revealed only two passes before each camera: one heading toward the bathroom, the other away, the second trip at a faster pace than the first.

Sherlock could not believe that anyone would be able to enter his flat through the windows in broad daylight, but he scrutinized each one anyway. The general population—the entire population, really—were unobservant idiots, after all.

As he stood deciding on his next course of action, his mobile rang in his pocket.

‘Sherlock Holmes’, he answered.

‘Interested in a little murder?’ Lestrade asked. _Yes, but…_

‘Can’t just now. Deep in a private case. Missing person’, he added, looking about for some evidence he’d not yet found.

‘Well, not to be grim, but maybe my murder victim is your missing person’, Lestrade suggested.

‘Doubt it.’ Sherlock was about to end the call when Lestrade said, ‘Possible serial killer.’ Sherlock paused, waiting for more data.

‘You read about the murdered dancer a couple months back?’

‘Yes, I remember. Harald Scharff, principal with the Royal Danish Ballet. High-profile case. And one you actually solved for yourself for a change, according to the papers. I trust the quick arrest satisfied the Danish government.’

Lestrade sighed. ‘Yeah, it did. And given the nature of the case—high-profile, the international aspect—they’re hurrying up the trial. Thing is, there was a weird set-up where the body was found and, as it happens, we’ve got a very similar scene here. It’s a violinist this time, but the arrangement is like the other. And I’m not talking about the parts that the press got hold of, so a copy-cat doesn’t seem likely.’

‘You arrested the wrong person’, Sherlock stated.

‘Maybe’, Lestrade allowed. ‘Look, the trial’s in two weeks, and I’d like to get this sorted by then, if I can. Will you come?’

Possible serial killer. One of the more interesting types of criminal. Murder itself was commonplace, of course, but serial killers nearly always put so much effort into the performance. Sherlock glanced once more around the flat, then asked, ‘What’s the address?’

At least there would be a decent meal to come home to once he’d fixed Lestrade’s problem.


	8. The Discovery

And so there was. The killer was still at large, but Sherlock had been able to provide enough information on him that Lestrade’s team should be able to find him, likely before he killed again, if Sherlock understood him as well as he felt he did. How much fuss the innocent (of this crime) man slated for trial would cause on his release was another matter entirely. And none of Sherlock’s concern. The pasta and sauce before him, however…

That night, a kidnapping started him on a two-and-a-half-day romp through London at the request of parents unwilling to trust solely to the official police. Once the enigmatic, temperamental dwarf—‘Little person!’ he’d insisted—had been found and the stolen infant returned, Sherlock allowed Lestrade to drive him back to New Scotland Yard, if only because it put him much closer to Baker Street than he’d been. Three hours of paperwork later—it was a wonder the Met got anything done with the amount of paperwork they had to complete if just giving a statement took so long—and Sherlock walked himself back to his flat. By the time he had reached his door in the early afternoon, he was sincerely tired, the sharp edge of hunger causing him to think ravenously on what meal might await him.

He stopped abruptly at that thought, key just inserted into the lock. He leaned back and looked up at the sitting room windows above, giving equal consideration to the likelihood of finding his visitor in just now and the small shock he felt on realizing that he had come to look forward to, even to rely on, his unknown helper. With a silent curse at Mycroft for making him enjoy his torment, he quietly let himself in and sneaked up the stairs. By the time he opened the flat door, he felt positively re-energized by his anger.

_At last!_

The man was on the sofa, just starting up from a semi-reclined position and opening his eyes wide, staring at Sherlock staring back at him, an unvoiced ‘Oh’ perfectly outlined on his mouth.

‘Who are you?’ Sherlock demanded, standing ready in the doorway in case the fellow tried to flee.

‘Erm…’ The man on the sofa stood up slowly, eyes darting over his hands, his trousers, the table before him, the walls, and out the window, while he avoided Sherlock entirely and tried to find words.

‘Well?’ Sherlock stood so as to make the most of his physique. He was slender, but he knew his height alone could intimidate many. Throw in a scowl and the count grew.

The man looked at Sherlock and shrugged. ‘Hi.’

‘Hello’, Sherlock said carefully, tilting his head to consider the intruder from a different angle. And slowly, forcefully: ‘I asked you a question. Need I repeat myself?’

‘Well…’ The man scratched the back of his neck uncomfortably, but didn’t really look intimidated. They continued in silence a moment more.

‘Alright, if you won’t say who you are, how about telling me how you got in here.’ Sherlock removed his jacket as he took a step forward, tossing it onto the sofa.

‘I’m not really sure about that. I figure you’d brought me in?’

‘I brought you in? Oddly enough, I don’t recall bringing a 5’7” blond man into this flat at any point since I moved in.’ He stepped forward again, channelling his annoyance at the man’s lack of fear into his anger.

‘Oh.’ The man blinked. ‘I washed the dishes.’ A small, hopeful smile. When Sherlock just continued his stare, the man added: ‘Didn’t get into your room to check for anything there yet today. I know you like to take your tea in there sometimes. You forget to bring the cups back out.’ He looked sheepish at the somewhat accusatory statement.

‘And how would you know that?’ Sherlock took two more steps and now loomed directly over the shorter man.

‘I see you do it. Well, I see you go in with the tea and come out without the cup. And there’s usually one or two cups in there.’ The man looked straight up into Sherlock’s eyes and blinked rapidly, then added quietly. ‘It’s not a problem, really. I know where to look for the cups.’

Sherlock unleashed his sarcasm. ‘So, you broke into my flat for the sole purpose of finding and washing my tea cups?’

‘Of course not.’ The man looked offended. ‘I’ve done lots more than the washing up. I’ve hoovered and dusted. I’ve sorted your laundry and hung up your jackets.’ His eyes rested on the jacket thrown over the arm of the sofa. ‘I’d hang that one up if you’d let me by. And I didn’t break in’, he insisted, looking back at Sherlock.

‘Of course not’, Sherlock mimicked back at him. ‘No, you just sprang up fully-formed in my flat and set to work.’

‘Yes!’ the man beamed at him. ‘Except I only started doing the work once you said how you wished it would get done.’

Sherlock stepped back, giving the intruder room to move. The man reached to pick up the jacket and gasped, looking up quickly as Sherlock’s hand flashed out and caught his arm, gripping tightly.

‘Oi!’ The man pulled against Sherlock, trying to free himself. Sherlock kept his hold, his other hand coming up to grasp the man’s shoulder—puzzlement flooding his face—then flitting quickly over his torso, his hair. Solid. Cool. Flesh nearer rubber than flesh, hair nearer corn-silk than hair. The shirt, at least, felt like cotton. It was Sherlock’s turn to gasp when the arm he held abruptly narrowed and slid, vine-like, from his hand. He jumped back, eyes wide, and watched the arm settle into its proper form, leaving him to wonder what ‘proper form’ was for the creature before him.

‘How…’ Sherlock’s question was lost as the man— _not a man_ , his brain insisted—suddenly shrank before his eyes, disappearing under the falling jacket he had held. After a bewildered moment of staring at the jacket, Sherlock came to himself and bent over to pick the garment up between thumb and forefinger, giving it a gentle shake. The man— _creature? hallucination?_ —did not drop from its folds, nor was it on the floor just below.

Taking two careful steps back, Sherlock scanned the floor, the sofa, the table. _Not a hallucination. He was here. I saw and heard him—it._ He went to his knees and peered into the shadows under the sofa. Nothing.

‘Hello?’ he tried. Listened. Puzzled. He rose, still walking cautiously, eyes sweeping the floor, and went to sit in his accustomed chair by the fireplace, hoping to assure the thing with the space he granted it.

‘I won’t try to grab you again. I just want to ask you a few questions.’

Silence. Minutes slid by as Sherlock’s brain sifted through possibilities. _Hallucination induced by exhaustion: no, I’ve slept twice already this week. Drug flashback: never used anything that typically leads to them. Faeries: myths, not real. Spontaneous human polymorphism: oh, this is just ridiculous!_

OK, what did he know? The man seemed perfectly earnest about the work he’d done, as well as about not knowing how he’d come to Sherlock’s flat. A domestic sent by Mycroft wouldn’t have been able to lie with such conviction, surely.

His accent was mostly London, although not city-bred. His clothes were simple, in good repair, slightly rumpled—but he had just woken from a nap on the sofa. He seemed happy and experienced doing menial tasks; he admitted doing the cleaning and laundry. Also apparently doing some cooking, without poisoning Sherlock, which was a mark in his favour. But no indication of why. For any of it. Admitted to doing what Sherlock could assume he was doing, but wouldn’t answer beyond that. Mild, unassuming, a little unsure, but steady despite his nervousness.

So, labourer or domestic worker from somewhere near London, moves to the city looking for a job. Clothes say he hasn’t been homeless, must have had a bedsit somewhere. Just as he’s losing that—never found that job, couldn’t pay any longer—he finds his way into 221B. Possibly sneaked in behind Mrs Hudson; more likely, with that innocent face, offered to help her carry in her shopping, then said he’d let himself out but never did. Most likely squatting in the storage room upstairs. Helps himself to some of Sherlock’s food when the opportunity presents. Overhears Sherlock talking aloud—a glare at the skull on the window sill—and, being a man of conscience, starts doing a bit of the housework to compensate for the stolen food.

At least, this would be a reasonable set of deductions if the man— _creature_ —hadn’t done that thing with his arm and then disappeared. And he had done it; Sherlock couldn’t disbelieve what he’d seen with his own eyes and felt with his own hand.

So. Desperation set in.

‘Please. You’ve already spoken to me. A few more words can hardly matter. And I won’t make any move to hurt or restrain you, you have my word.’

‘What do you want to know?’ Sherlock barely contained his jump when the voice sounded behind him, near the window.

He turned cautiously around in his chair. The man was there again, just in front of the drapes, nervous gaze fixed on Sherlock.

Who and why and how disappeared behind the most important information needed: ‘What are you?’

The man frowned slightly, hesitated. ‘You won’t hurt any part of me, right? Nothing that’s me or mine. You promise?’

Sherlock looked around the flat, saw nothing that wasn’t already his, and nodded his agreement.

The object of Sherlock’s penetrating stare stood straight, feet planted firmly beneath him. Composing himself; steeling himself. And slowly, inch by inch, he grew shorter. _Portions still to scale,_ Sherlock’s brain recorded. When he was mere inches tall, he jumped onto the window ledge, reached up the side of the flower pot, and hoisted himself over the edge, growing even shorter. A tiny, perfect, animate doll of himself, he jumped up onto the bare end of a stalk—there had been a flower there earlier, Sherlock was sure—grasped hold, and…

The flower was there again. The doll-man was gone, had folded himself up, and now— _was a flower?!_

Sherlock did several things then. First, he realized that he was holding his breath and began breathing again. Then he realized he was twisted at an uncomfortable angle in his chair and turned round. At last, he remembered that he was, at his core, both a scientist and a detective, and highly curious into the bargain.

He stood, walked gingerly over to the window— _and why am I practically tiptoeing in my own flat?_ —and looked down at the flower. It was a flower. The same flower that had been there in days past. The one that had just been a man, caught sleeping on Sherlock’s sofa.

Sherlock looked to the sofa—no answers there—and back again at all the questions contained in a simple terra cotta pot.

‘Hello?’ he tried for the second time that afternoon.

The plant stirred, the flower-bearing stalk bending slightly as the flower— _no, not a flower, not in any way a flower_ —shifted hues ever so fractionally and was—

_Not a tiny human figure waving up at him. Not, not, not._ Sherlock knew, with all the certainly of years of scientific inquiry and study, that this was not what he saw. _It’s a trick of the light, is it not?_ He picked up the pot and raised it as he spun around to get a different light, bringing it up to his face, dislodging the Lilliputian form and causing it to plop, sprawling, to the dirt below. Sherlock let go in shock, then quickly snatched at the pot again, managing to secure it before it hit the floor. The little man— _creature!_ —rolled about under the leaves.

‘Hey! You promised! Please!!’ came the voice, pitched just as moments before but faint despite that it was an obvious yell. Sherlock froze. Stared. Tried to speak. Had no idea what to say.

The doll-man stood, clinging to its stalk, and looked up at Sherlock.

‘Please’, he implored. ‘Don’t— Just—’ Similarly at a loss for words.

‘I didn’t realize you weren’t—attached. I’ve moved the pot before and you haven’t fallen off. What happened?’ _I am talking to a two-inch tall flower-man._

‘I was a flower then.’

‘Oh. … That makes a difference?’

‘When I’m a flower, it’s, well…’ He shrugged. ‘It’s easier to hold on. Except I don’t really have to. I’m just there. A part of the plant. See?’

Sherlock blinked. Seeing wasn’t helping at all.

‘I’m going to put you down now. Hold on.’ Sherlock pivoted very slowly, never taking his eyes from the little man gripping his plant. Just as slowly, he walked to the desk and lowered the pot to it.

‘Better?’ he asked, releasing the pot. He was hunched before it now, looking his guest in the eye.

‘Yeah. Thanks.’ The flower-man dusted himself off.

The two stared at each other some moments longer.

Sherlock’s mind had stopped racing through possibilities and had gone back to cataloguing data. But nothing he was seeing was in any way different from what he’d see while watching a fellow standing on a corner waiting for a bus. Except the whole size- and shape-changing thing. He closed his eyes and sighed. _Thing. Have I been reduced to such unscientific words as_ thing _?_

The man took and released a deep breath. ‘So…’ Sherlock opened his eyes. Still there.

‘Indeed.’ Sherlock stood and stepped back. ‘Can you grow up—larger, I mean—again? It might be easier to talk. You’re rather muted just now.’

The man looked down at himself, then just reversed the whole miraculous process to stand in front of Sherlock. _Now I’m thinking in terms of miracles,_ Sherlock lamented to himself.

‘You shrank much more quickly over by the sofa’, Sherlock noted, also taking in the man’s defensive stance in front of the pot.

‘I thought it best to go slow, so you could watch.’

‘Ah. Thank you.’ He strode to the middle of the room, giving his curious visitor space again. ‘My word is good; I won’t hurt you. Unless you try to hurt me first.’

‘I wouldn’t! I haven’t!’ The man looked genuinely affronted at the suggestion. ‘I’ve just been trying to help.’

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed. ‘You said I told you I wanted the housework done.’

‘Yeah, it was one of the things you talked about, whenever you talked to me. Sometimes you talked about your work, too, which was very interesting, but I couldn’t really help with that.’ He was still standing in front of his pot, watching carefully, but recovered from his shaken state when jolted loose from the stem. He returned Sherlock’s gaze steadily.

‘I wasn’t talking to you’, Sherlock said. ‘I didn’t even know you were there.’ He gestured to the window sill. ‘I was talking to the skull.’

The man looked at the skull sitting where his pot had been. ‘Oh.’ His face crumpled into disappointment and hurt. ‘Oh.’

‘Forget about that, I’m talking to you now.’ Sherlock waved the emotions away. _Best to keep this on topic._ ‘Tell me how you do that, changing shape and size. Can you look like other people or animals or is this your only form besides the flower? Can you manipulate all of your limbs to change separately like you did when I grabbed you? Could you look like that desk?’

In his fervour, Sherlock had closed on the man, was just reaching out for his arm. The man stepped back and pressed himself to the desk, confusion, mistrust, and his remaining hurt taking turns on his expressive face. Sherlock stopped, hands up.

‘Not going to hurt you, remember?’ he said, irritated by the retreat.

‘Sherlock’, the man tried. ‘That’s who you are, right? That’s your name.’

‘Yes.’ Sherlock was baffled by this change in topic.

‘What’s my name?’

Sherlock narrowed his eyes and looked down at the stranger, taken aback by the simple question. ‘You haven’t told me.’ He studied the man. ‘You don’t know it.’

‘You haven’t called me anything. And no one else has spoken to me.’ He glanced to the skull again. ‘Of course, you weren’t really talking to me’, he mumbled.

‘Never mind about that’, Sherlock snapped. He spun and walked back to the centre of the room, brain and body both spinning as he worked through the afternoon’s bizarre events. ‘You don’t have a name’, he stated. ‘Because you’re a flower, not a person. You were—Oh!’ He jolted to a stop. ‘You really did spring up fully-formed and set to work! You were born when the plant blossomed.’ He looked to the creature for confirmation.

It shrugged, looked at the plant. ‘That’s me’, he affirmed.

‘Wonderful!’ Sherlock breathed. His eyes, his entire face, lit up like sky rockets as he stared at the incredible gift he’d been given.

The man waited, but as Sherlock’s gaze never shifted, he began to look annoyed. ‘Well?’ he asked.

‘Well what?’

‘My name.’

‘Oh, right.’ Sherlock shrugged one shoulder. ‘What would you like to call yourself?’

Sherlock’s shrug was reflected back at him. ‘I dunno. What’s a good name?’

Sherlock considered. ‘You’re— Well, I thought you were a member of the Violaceae family, have to do some more research there, but I hardly suppose Pansy would do for you. Mm.’ His eyes narrowed, chin lifted. ‘Actually, I think we’d best avoid anything in that line. Don’t want to start people speculating. No, something plain, something common. …John’, he announced happily.

‘John’, was the flat response.

‘You don’t like it?’ Sherlock queried.

‘John.’ John nodded and met Sherlock’s eyes. ‘Sounds fine.’


	9. The Beginning

John and Sherlock talked through the afternoon, the evening, and well into the night, Sherlock bombarding John with questions and John responding as well as he could. John knew some things seemingly by instinct but remained spectacularly ignorant of others. He could speak but didn’t know what language he was speaking or even if he knew others besides English. Sherlock tested him on several other languages and declared him to be monolingual.

He could prepare a few basic meals, but these he’d learned by watching Sherlock, who was surprised to hear that John had more than once slipped off his stem and discretely observed him in tiny form. _Of course he saw me leaving cups in my room._ He’d learned to make a couple of meals and to do the laundry this way. Dusting was obvious. It wasn’t until Sherlock had ground a series of dirt samples into the rug, then hoovered them up, that John had discovered that particular task and device.

Self-care was automatic. John knew just how much water he needed and to turn himself every day so he wouldn’t grow lopsided. But when Sherlock asked what variety of plant he was, John went blank.

John’s clothes were a part of him. He had adopted the design—jeans and a T-shirt—from that of passers-by below. ‘Seemed pretty standard’, he said. He’d refined the texture after finding examples in Sherlock’s closet. Sherlock presented him with other fabrics and prompted him to replicate the textures and patterns. John complied, but somehow—even when he tried to mimic a dense, woolly jumper—the results always felt cottony.

In the early evening, they were interrupted by footsteps on the stairs. ‘Mrs Hudson’, Sherlock breathed, fixing John with a sharp look. ‘Act human.’ John stared wide-eyed back at him.

Sherlock rose and opened the door to greet his landlady, her hand raised to knock.

‘Mrs Hudson’, he smiled broadly.

‘Here you are, Sherlock’, she said, raising the grocery sack in her other hand. ‘The rice and beans you wanted.’

‘Ah, yes, thank you’, he replied, taking the bag and extending his other arm behind him with a small flourish. ‘Would you like—’ he began, turning and finding no John to introduce her to. His face barely twitched and he turned back to Mrs Hudson. ‘Would you like the money for these now?’

‘Do you have the money for them now?’ She looked dubiously up at him.

‘Well…’ _No._ ‘Perhaps easiest just to tack it onto the rent.’ He smiled winningly.

‘Hmm—like the soup earlier this week, I suppose.’ She frowned.

‘Exactly’, he said brightly. ‘Well, if you’ll excuse me, I’m right in the middle of an important experiment. Timing is crucial, you understand.’

She peered past him into the flat, noting the clothes heaped on the desk. ‘Just see you don’t set anything else on fire.’

When he heard her muted footsteps on the floor below, he closed the door the remaining inch and spun round to face the room.

‘John?’ he whispered loudly. ‘John! Where are you?’

Tiny-John stepped from behind the leg of the armchair he’d been sitting in a moment before.

‘Why did you do that?’ Sherlock complained, full-voiced. ‘You almost made me look like an idiot.’ He dropped the groceries by the kitchen table and crossed back to his chair, taking care to go wide around John.

‘Sorry’, came the faint response. ‘Should I get big again?’

‘It does help to make the conversation feel a little more normal.’ Sherlock’s face puckered in surprise. ‘But why on earth would I want that?’

John remained small, looking hesitantly up at Sherlock.

‘Yes, yes, get bigger’, Sherlock said through his annoyance. ‘No sense making things difficult.’ John complied.

‘So? …’

‘So what?’ John asked.

‘I asked you a question.’

‘I’m right he— Oh. I didn’t want her to see me.’

‘Why not? You look human enough to pass from that distance.’

John thought a moment while Sherlock studied him, hunching forward elbows to knees, hands to lips.

‘I don’t think I should let people see me.’

‘I’ve seen you—why not others?’ Sherlock settled back into the chair.

‘I was trying to stay hidden. I’m not sure even you should see me, though I am yours, I guess, aren’t I? Today was an accident.’ Sherlock’s brows rose in query. ‘I fell asleep. I get tired when I move around a lot, do too much. I think I could use some food.’

‘Ah, well, rice and beans arrived just in time, then.’ Sherlock led John to the kitchen and gave a lesson in preparing a new meal, considering what other tasks John could learn. He was interrupted by John’s observation: ‘I don’t think that will compost fast enough to do me any good right now.’

_Oh._

‘Right. Plant food. For your plant.’ Sherlock moved to his laptop on the desk and started typing. ‘We’ll just find a good general type for now. Later, we can try some other varieties, conduct a few experiments. I should be able to formulate something specific to your’—he glanced up and down John—‘you without much difficulty once I see how you respond to different nutrients in various ratios.’

‘That sounds great.’ John leaned over Sherlock’s shoulder a bit as Sherlock browsed. Selection made, Sherlock found a nearby shop that should carry the product.

‘First thing tomorrow we’ll step out and buy it.’

John looked from Sherlock to the screen and back again, clearly impressed. ‘Can you teach me to do that?’

‘Web search? Here’, he demonstrated. ‘You just bring up your search engine, type in what you want, and press enter.’ Sherlock tapped the key and looked at John’s face as it twisted in consternation. ‘Too fast?’ _He didn’t seem that stupid._

‘No. I just meant’—John pointed at the many words on the results page—‘this. How to read.’ Sherlock blinked, turned back to the computer, and typed ‘adult literacy programs London’ into the search bar.

‘Perhaps you’d better check the rice, John.’

Next morning, John resisted Sherlock’s efforts to get him to go for the plant food with him; he was determined not to be seen by anyone else. No amount of reassurances on Sherlock’s part that John was ‘quite passable’ made a difference. John eventually shrank down and reattached himself to his plant. Sherlock found this to be an irksomely effective conversation ender.

On his return, Sherlock diluted the liquid per the instructions and poured a bit over the plant.

‘Well?’ he finally asked after several moments of the flower making no move to change into John.

‘Sorry’, came the faint reply from the morphed flower. ‘Takes a while to make it up from the roots. Don’t know yet.’

‘Mm. Well, let me know how it feels.’

An hour later, John fairly bounded up to Sherlock at work in the kitchen. ‘Feels great’, he reported.

Aside from six hours spent on one private case, Sherlock spent the next several days getting to know more about John and answering his many questions. The most extraordinary aspect about John—aside from the fact that he spent approximately half of his day in the shape of a flower—was his incredible ability to learn.

Sherlock was attempting again to lure John outside by explaining that he would have to go to a school building to attend the free literacy instruction he’d signed John up for.

‘Why can’t you just teach me?’ John asked.

‘I’m sure I’d be a horrible teacher, John. I haven’t the patience for something like that.’

‘You’ve taught me how to cook, clean, sort the laundry… and you weren’t even trying for most of that’, John pointed out, handing Sherlock a cup of tea.

Sherlock sighed. ‘Those are very basic matters. They’re simple. Any idiot can sort laundry. Reading is intellectual. Humans learn—usually—as children, when our brains are most receptive to new knowledge, and still it takes years to master. And’, he added, rising from his chair and pulling down a book, ‘the English language can be particularly challenging to decipher in its written form. Some people have had very creative notions about how to spell over the years and far too many of those notions have stuck. Ought to do you a favour and teach you Bulgarian’, he mumbled, holding the book open under John’s gaze. ‘Here; look at this. It’s a phonetic alphabet. Sixty-eight characters to represent the sounds made in English.’ He turned back a page. ‘And here are the twenty-six letters that we actually use to represent those sounds. Why aren’t there sixty-eight?’ Sherlock complained, leaving the dictionary in John’s hands and stalking away.

John considered quietly for a moment. Finally he turned to Sherlock. ‘These are the basic parts, then?’

‘Yes, letters. You put them together to make words and the words go together to make sentences.’

‘That sounds simple enough.’

Sherlock turned from the window he’d been looking out. ‘Are you forgetting what I just told you about the disparity between the number of letters to represent the sounds and the numbers of sounds themselves? Take the letter “A”, the first one there. That one letter alone probably has ten different sounds. _And_ two forms in print.’

‘A’, John repeated, looking at the letter, then back to Sherlock. ‘Is everyone else in the class going to know it’s an “A”?’

‘You’ll have one-on-one instruction to begin with. Later you’ll move on to the class format, after your instructor has taught you the basics like letters.’

John stood and crossed to stand by Sherlock at the window. ‘But will the others have started knowing their letters?’

‘Certainly some will have, probably the majority.’

‘Well’, John held the book between them, still open to the alphabet, ‘can’t you just teach me the letters before I go? So I don’t look like a complete idiot?’

Sherlock looked down at John’s pleading, hopeful face. ‘Oh, very well.’ He grabbed the book. ‘We’ll try.’

To his credit, Sherlock quickly learned John’s ability to trick him into all manner of things by beginning with a simple request and that very mix of pleading and hopeful expressions. Also to his credit, he quite often allowed John to get his way. On matters of no consequence only, of course.

As they went through the letters, John kept asking questions—‘Is this a common one? What kinds of words is it in? How many sounds does this one have?’—and Sherlock kept answering. Within an hour, John had mastered the alphabet and the sounds of most letters. Within five, he was reading aloud from the Life section of _The Times_ with little help from his reluctant tutor.

John became aware that Sherlock had sat back in his chair and was staring in open wonder at John in the chair opposite.

‘What?’ John asked. ‘Did I get something wrong?’

Sherlock grinned. ‘Not in the last half hour. You really are extraordinary in your capacity to absorb knowledge and use it. Correctly. Fascinating.’

John smiled back, plainly pleased at Sherlock’s praise. ‘Guess you can tell those literacy folks I’m not coming, yeah?’

‘Obviously.’ Sherlock thrust himself up. ‘But don’t think that this is getting you out of stepping outside. If anything, this just makes it easier. You can read street signs and navigate just fine now. You could even do the shopping.’ Sherlock looked quite pleased at that.

John had turned his face back to the newspaper. ‘Sherlock’, he started, still looking down. He grimaced. ‘I really don’t think I should. I can read, sure, but’—he looked up, gesturing toward the window—‘I don’t know anything about all that stuff out there. Why people are doing what they’re doing or going where they’re going. What if someone speaks to me? Expects me to know something? What if someone touches me? You said I don’t feel right.’

‘We can put regular clothes on you—I’m sure I have something that will work.’

‘And my hands?’

‘Keep them in your pockets.’

‘And when people talk to me?’

‘You don’t have to respond. Just pretend you’re American.’

‘And when I get lost? There are lots of places out there, Sherlock.’

‘Don’t worry—I know London as well as I know this room.’

‘And what good is that going to do me?’

From across the room, Sherlock examined John, then let his face fall into tired exasperation. ‘I will be with you, John’, he stated slowly. ‘I won’t let you get lost.’

‘Oh.’ John’s mouth tilted to a half grin. ‘You will?’

‘You thought I would send you out there alone? You’d be eaten alive. Of course I’m going with you. Not literally’, he added as John’s eyes widened at ‘eaten alive’. ‘London isn’t that rough a town.’

John leaned forward, hands rolling and unrolling the newspaper between his knees, thinking hard. ‘You really think I can pass?’

Sherlock just stared back.

‘Right. OK. If you’re going, too.’ Sherlock blew out a breath of relief. ‘But maybe I should meet one person first. As a test? Before facing—how many people are out there?’

‘Nearly eight million residents, plus those that travel in to work. And more tourists than I care to think about.’

John looked struck. He rose and crossed to the window, peering down at Baker Street below.

‘They’re like motes of pollen’, he said quietly. ‘All on the flower of London.’

Sherlock considered the simile. ‘Well, I wouldn’t figure on a writing career, but that is a picturesque way of putting it. You can share your observation with Mrs Hudson.’ Sherlock smiled quickly, moving to the flat door. John heard the street door closing below as Sherlock called out, ‘Mrs Hudson!’

‘What—now?’ John gasped. ‘But—I’m not wearing clothes. I don’t know what to say.’ John started toward his pot, halting at Sherlock’s over-the-shoulder glare.

‘Stop worrying. You’ll do fine.’ Sherlock dashed down to the next landing and called out again. ‘Mrs Hudson, come meet John.’

Mrs Hudson climbed the stairs, wondering aloud what Sherlock was going on about now. Sherlock escorted her into the sitting room and presented her to John, who still hovered near his planter.

‘Mrs Hudson, this is John. John, Mrs Hudson, the most decent, generous landlady in London.’

Manners winning out over the worry that came with such a declaration from her trying tenant, Mrs Hudson greeted John warmly and moved as if to shake his hand. Sherlock took her by the shoulders and spun her to face him instead.

‘John’s moving in’, Sherlock announced. ‘He’s my new flatmate.’

‘Oh? Well, that’s good news, I’m sure. What do you do, John?’ she turned to ask him, calculating past due rent and grocery costs. John looked to Sherlock, eyes widening slightly as panic began to nibble at his heels.

‘He’s between jobs just now. Only been in London a short time—still getting himself sorted.’

‘Oh.’ Notions of paid bills fled. ‘Is that a good idea, Sherlock?’ she asked gently. ‘Taking on an unemployed flatmate?’

‘Not to worry, Mrs Hudson’, he declared, crossing to the kitchen. ‘John’s very handy. Makes an excellent cup of tea, don’t you, John?’

John looked mildly confused. ‘I guess so?’

‘Why don’t you make us all a cup now?’ Sherlock gestured to the kettle.

‘Sure.’ John smiled and strode to the stove.

While he waited for the water to boil and set out the cups, John listened to Sherlock and Mrs Hudson chatting. John didn’t know it then, but he was seeing Sherlock displaying his best company manners: showing Mrs Hudson to a chair, engaging her in small talk about her shopping and recent visit with Mrs Turner, all with a pleasant and interested smile at the ready. So hospitable was Sherlock as this moment that John would be stunned speechless the first time he saw Sherlock engage with Sgt Sally Donovan, furious when he first saw Sherlock lie to a suspect to trick information out of him, indignant at Sherlock’s treatment of John himself when his black moods came upon him.

But just now, with all that in an unknown future, John did just as he knew Sherlock intended him to do: he listened, he watched, he absorbed, he learned. And when he took the tea into the sitting room, he smiled at Mrs Hudson as he placed the tray on the low table, took a deep breath, and joined the conversation without a hitch.

When the tea was gone and Mrs Hudson had nearly exhausted her opinions on the BBC’s latest dramas, Sherlock brought the conversation around to the subject of John’s accommodations. ‘You won’t mind if we set up the storage room as a bedroom for John, will you, Mrs Hudson?’

‘Well, I suppose not. If you’ll be needing two bedrooms.’

‘Of course we’ll be needing two’, Sherlock replied, looking at her askance.

‘Oh, don’t worry, you know we’ve got all sorts ’round here.’ She turned and said confidingly to John, ‘Mrs Turner next door’s got married ones.’ John smiled blandly, unsure of the correct response. ‘You can take the upstairs room’, she decided. ‘There’s still a bed there you can put together and you can use whatever else you like. And then move the rest downstairs to 221C—I can’t seem to get anyone interested in that place.’

With the matter settled, she took her leave and went to her supper. Sherlock lead John upstairs to show him his new room.

‘But why do I need a whole room to sleep in?’ he asked. ‘My pot hardly takes up any space.’

‘Keeping up appearances, John. What do you think?’ he asked, taking in the room with an arm’s sweep.

‘Window’s are small, but I’m sure I’ll get enough sun’, John responded. With a grin, Sherlock started sorting through the items still stored here. Within an hour they had assembled the bed, placed a small chest of drawers between the windows, and hauled the remainders out. While John dusted his meagre furnishings, Sherlock set to rummaging through his closet for clothes that would do for his new flatmate.


	10. Exchanges

Sherlock devoted the next day to prepping John for immersion into the great expanse of London. He scrutinized John’s appearance, giving instructions on making it more accurate and natural. ‘Soften the hair.’ ‘Darken the skin tone.’ ‘Relax your stance; you look like you’re standing at attention.’ After a while he took a step back and thoughtfully appraised John’s refined look.

‘Show me your hand.’ John held his hand out, but when Sherlock reached to take it, he quickly drew it back, still unused to and nervous of being touched. At Sherlock’s chiding look, he re-extended the hand. Sherlock flipped it over and examined it with his pocket magnifier, letting go to step back and consider John again. He stared, face twisted in displeasure, finger tapping rapidly against his thigh. John waited patiently for Sherlock to speak, as he’d already learned to do.

Finally, Sherlock declared: ‘There’s no way around it. Benefits aside, you’re going to need them. They’ll help with your grip, too.’

‘What do I need?’

Sherlock held his own hand in front of John and offered the magnifier. ‘Fingerprints.’ John focused on Sherlock’s hand, then on his own.

‘Each person’s are unique’, Sherlock continued. ‘To lack them would be—interesting, but counter to the effort to make you fit in.’

John concentrated and they both watched as his fingers pruned up like he’d been over-long in the bath, then settled into ordinary, barely-there prints.

‘You know, even after nearly a week of seeing that, it’s still fas— hold on!’ He grabbed his magnifier back and gripped the hand that had held it, examining first John’s prints, then his own.

‘I said _unique_ , John. You can’t use mine!’

‘If I change them, how will I know I haven’t used someone else’s?’

Sherlock dropped John’s hand and walked away. ‘There’s no guarantee, but you simply can’t use those. Do you have any idea how suspicious it would look if someone dusted this place for prints and found only one set for two persons?’

John looked around. Sherlock had explained the curious steps he had taken in trying to discover and identify John before finding him on the sofa, so he understood the concept and use of dusting for prints, but—

‘Why would someone dust for prints here? You find criminals; does anyone think you are one?’ John’s face froze and he didn’t speak the natural next question: _Are you a criminal?_

‘Sometimes’, Sherlock granted with a grin. ‘But, although I occasionally have need of bending or even breaking laws in the course of my work, no, John, I am not a criminal.’

‘There’s a difference between breaking the law and being a criminal?’

‘Of course’, Sherlock stated. ‘Now change your prints. Make them however you like, just don’t copy mine.’

John was quiet a moment, then said, ‘That’s why you said benefits.’ When Sherlock didn’t respond, he continued, ‘Because there would be benefits to not having fingerprints. No one could ever identify me by them.’

‘It would be useful’, Sherlock conceded, ‘having someone around that didn’t have to worry about leaving a trail. You don’t leave any human DNA behind, either, so you’d be largely unidentifiable, if not entirely undetectable. Of course, if you did leave a print in an unfortunate spot, I suppose you could just change them. Let’s see.’

When Sherlock moved back to examine the upturned hands John offered, John looked straight up at him and asked softly, ‘Would you ask me to be a criminal?’

‘Certainly not’, Sherlock retorted, offended.

‘To break a law?’

‘If it were ever really necessary, I suppose I might.’ John stepped back and looked critically at his Pygmalion. Sherlock stared back, then advised: ‘Live a while in this world before you start passing judgements, John. There’s always context to consider.’

Finally content with John’s appearance, speech, and manner, and under the cover of the relative darkness of London’s night, Sherlock led John on a simple tour around the block. When they returned, John’s eyes were bright and his smile wide. As he went to his pot, he declared, ‘You know, I think I’m going to like London.’

It was on one of their earliest explorations of the outside world that John first discovered cut flowers.

They were strolling along the pavement, John marvelling at the buildings and people and cars, Sherlock noting his various reactions, when John saw the flowers half-way down the block. He jogged forward to examine the blooms set out in front of a florist’s, smiling eagerly. As he got near, he slowed, his smile replaced by shock. Sherlock caught up to him seconds later. As John stared at the daisies, the carnations, the long-stemmed roses, Sherlock analysed the look on his face, the stiffness of his body.

‘John?’ His eyes searched his companion’s, roved over the buckets of flowers, darted back to John. ‘What is it?’

‘They’re dead.’

‘What? No, they’re alive. Look, fresh blooms on every stem’, he said, drawing up a large red carnation and holding it out to John. ‘By the looks of it, the florist had a delivery this morning.’

John stared at the bottom of the stem then at the dozen or so buckets filled with bright blossoms. ‘Dead. All of them’, he whispered. ‘Why?’ He turned to Sherlock, awaiting an explanation. Sherlock looked thoughtful a moment.

‘Ah’, he said, replacing the carnation and pulling John away by the elbow. ‘I suppose you would consider them dead, wouldn’t you?’

‘Well, of course they’re dead! Just look at them’, John exclaimed, twisting around to look back at the shop’s display. ‘Every one of them, chopped off. Why are they out there like that? Who would do that?’ Sherlock tugged again on his elbow and put some distance between them and the shop; a few persons had glanced in John’s direction at his outburst.

‘They’re for sale, John’, he explained quietly, ‘for decoration, mostly. People give them to each other for special occasions: birthdays, holidays, that sort of thing. To say “I love you” or “I’m sorry your cat died” or “I forgot our anniversary—again.” It’s a human custom.’

‘Decoration?’ John breathed in disbelief. ‘“I’m sorry your cat died”? People kill flowers to say “I’m sorry your cat died”?’

‘Well… Yes.’ Sherlock shrugged. ‘It’s a long-standing tradition, gone on for millennia; probably every culture on the planet does it.’ John stopped and gaped at the off-handed remarks. Sherlock halted and moved into John’s space. ‘Look, John, it really is quite common. It’s unfortunate that it offends you, but you’re going to have to get used to it. Now do stop carrying on. People are beginning to stare at you.’ John looked around, barely saw the people passing by, and let Sherlock draw him forward again. They had reached the end of the block and Sherlock steered them around the corner; he knew there were no florists in this street.

John let himself be guided for a block while he tried to assimilate this horrifying information. Then he suddenly wrested his arm from Sherlock’s hold and stopped abruptly. ‘Do you? Have you ever—?’

Sherlock rolled his eyes. ‘Good Lord, no; why on earth would I send flowers to anyone?’ John looked relieved, then apprehensive.

‘Mrs Hudson?’

Sherlock paused. He was sure she did, but that knowledge would do John no good.

‘The only time I’ve ever received flowers from her, it was a potted plant’, he informed John, omitting the details of the plant’s end. John smiled.

‘Oh, that’s good.’ He started forward again, still keeping close to Sherlock but seeming able to navigate his own way now. The shock was wearing off. Sherlock decided it was time to get John home and took the shortest florist-free route back to Baker Street. As they climbed the stairs to their flat, John spoke.

‘Do you think we can get people to stop?’

‘As I said, John, the custom extends around the world. I doubt you’re going to be able to change that many minds.’ He threw his jacket onto the sofa; John immediately picked it up and hung it by the door.

‘But, it’s just so wrong. They’re—they’re dead. All those flowers, murdered.’

Sherlock sat in his chair by the fireplace. ‘John, you prepare vegetables, fruits, and grains for me to eat every day. Those are dead plants. And you’re handling them, cooking them. I don’t see where cut flowers are so different. Not to mention compost.’

John started to speak, considered, then started again. ‘Well, for starters, fruits, vegetables, and grains aren’t flowers any more. They’re finished. They’ve become what they’re supposed to be. They’ve gone full cycle, all the way to maturity, and they’re supposed to fall off the vine or the stalk or whatever.’ He moved into the kitchen and set the kettle to boil. ‘Flowers are still in the process’, he called into the lounge. ‘They’ve not finished yet. And being food—well, that’s something.’ He re-emerged, tea bag in hand. ‘Those flowers were cut to be decorations. _Decorations!_ That’s not a reason to kill something that’s still growing, especially when it’s more beautiful alive. Fruits and vegetables reach the end of their cycle; they die for a purpose. It’s OK to die naturally or for a purpose, but to be killed for decoration? No’, he concluded, returning to the kitchen. ‘It’s wrong and I won’t see it otherwise.’

Sherlock was quiet until John brought his tea and sat across from him. John had noted the thoughtful look on his face and waited to hear what Sherlock was thinking.

‘You’re a flower’, Sherlock stated.

‘Yeah’, John agreed, wary of Sherlock stating the obvious.

‘So, you’re not finished. Will you…?’ He gestured vaguely.

John looked awkward, looked away. ‘Not all flowers are like that’, he mumbled. He glanced at Sherlock out of the corner of his eye as Sherlock’s gaze narrowed on him. John blew a sigh through his nose and turned back to face him.

‘Sherlock, for some flowers, there are males and females separate; you know that. Or did you delete it? I can’t do it by myself’, he said, huddling into his chair. ‘I’d need a—female flower. And some bees would help.’

Sherlock considered. ‘Do you want a female flower, John?’

John snorted. ‘Not like we’re going to find one like me just sitting around waiting, are we?’

‘We could go to Ms Voigt. Perhaps she has more seeds—’

‘No’, John cut him off.

‘No?’ Sherlock arched his brows.

‘No.’ John avoided his gaze, discomfited. ‘…I’m fine. I don’t want a female flower.’

Sherlock tilted his head, appraising John. ‘Do you want a male flower?’

‘Well that’s hardly going to be useful, is it?’ John exclaimed.

Sherlock shrugged. ‘Some humans prefer it that way.’

‘Not. Human.’ John looked pointedly at Sherlock. Sherlock looked annoyed.

‘Well, pardon me, John, but I’ve never made a study of the sexual proclivities of flowers. Seems to me that the bees would be having most of the fun anyway’, he asserted, and took his tea to the desk, opened his computer, and started typing.

An hour later, John returned to the sitting room from upstairs.

‘Sherlock?’

‘Mm.’

‘Do you have a female human?’

‘Female—? No, not really my area.’

‘Do you have a male human?’

‘You heard me.’

‘Not your area.’

‘Certainly not. I’ve no need for…that.’ Sherlock looked mildly disgusted.

John considered, then his face broke in pleased understanding. ‘Oh!’ Sherlock’s puzzled gaze followed John into the kitchen.

‘Oh?’ He rose and went to stand in the doorway. ‘You understand?’ he asked, openly curious.

‘Sure’, John said, setting out a jar of pasta sauce. ‘You’re monoecious.’

‘Monoecious.’ Sherlock reviewed the plant terminology he’d recently acquired and came up blank.

‘Yeah.’ John saw the somewhat questioning look on Sherlock’s face and clarified. ‘Monoecious: both male and female in one. You don’t need another.’ His arm snaked up for the pasta as he quietly added, ‘Must be nice’, then ‘What?’ as he saw Sherlock’s eyes go wide.

‘The term for mammals is “hermaphrodite”, John, and, unlike in plants, such things are extremely rare among humans. Indeed, it’s considered to be an abnormality. And I’m not one, by the way. I am male, just as I appear to be’, he assured John, straightening his cuffs.

John was staring at him, hand resting on the oven handle. ‘But, you said you don’t need—. I don’t understand.’

‘Perhaps “need” isn’t the best word. Rather, I don’t _want_ another. Of any variety. I’m perfectly happy on my own. It’s called asexuality.’ He returned to his chair. John followed as far as the doorway.

‘Wouldn’t that mean that you’re not either?’

‘No, it means that I don’t desire either.’ Seeing John’s face scrunched in thought, Sherlock sighed. ‘Don’t bother trying to understand it, John. Few humans do.’


	11. Needs

When Sherlock was out on a case, John confined himself to the flat, occupying himself with reading Sherlock’s many books or searching the internet for information on random items that had come to his attention: how soap worked; the invention of the printing press; what a spork was; why the sun circled the earth as it did (and that had been a revelation in itself). He had also begun trying to organize the stacks and boxes of case notes dominating the flat; however, after a reprimand from Sherlock for filing a serial killer beside an arsonist (the man had burned down a greenhouse and murder was murder, to John’s mind), he left that as a task best done _with_ the detective.

When she heard Sherlock dashing down the stairs on the words ‘Lestrade’s an idiot, but he knows enough to call me on the interesting cases!’, Mrs Hudson put a batch of biscuits into the oven and later took them, still warm, to share with her newest tenant. At her knock, John opened the door to a Mrs Hudson wearing a near-predatory smile. Only her aged face and always-sweet disposition kept John from likening her to a weevil in his mind.

‘Thought you boys could do with some biscuits’, she stated, moving determinedly into the flat. Setting the tray on the coffee table, she looked all around the room. ‘Oh, is Sherlock out?’

‘Yes, Mrs Hudson. He has a case’, John responded. ‘Would you like some tea?’

In moments they were settled with their repast, Mrs Hudson on the sofa, John on a desk chair pulled up across from her. John had become adept at hiding a biscuit or two when Mrs Hudson wasn’t looking so she wouldn’t wonder at his lack of appetite. He’d tried eating once, but the experience had proven a spectacular failure, never to be repeated.

‘Any luck with your search for work?’ she asked.

‘None yet’, he replied, as Sherlock had instructed him to. They hadn’t yet determined between themselves what—if anything—John should do for employment.

‘Oh, that’s too bad. What is it that you do?’

‘Manual labour most recently.’ John deflected further inquiry in that line by prompting Mrs Hudson with several key topics that Sherlock had taught him: ‘Have you heard from your sister this week?’ ‘Did you happen to hear the loud discussion coming from next door two nights ago?’ ‘I noticed Mrs Turner getting a delivery of a very large box this morning.’ She had gossiped happily for nearly 45 minutes when they were interrupted by a small chime. John looked to the desk and saw that Sherlock had forgotten his phone there in his rush out the door. John shrugged off the first chime and ignored the next three, arriving in quick succession. On the fifth, at Mrs Hudson’s prompt ‘Perhaps you should see if it’s urgent’, John went to peer at the screen. It bore an incoming message from someone named Anderson ordering John to ‘33 Seymour Place. Bring phone at once. SH’.

John stepped back from the desk as if the phone had threatened him with violence. He couldn’t deliver the phone, surely Sherlock knew that. He’d not been out alone yet, knew only his own small neighbourhood. He looked to Mrs Hudson and smiled warmly.

‘Sherlock needs his phone—I don’t suppose you’re going out this afternoon?’

‘Oh, no, dear’, she replied. ‘My hip’s been a little achy lately. Trying to stay off of it until I get some more of those nice herbal soothers.’

‘Of course.’ As John struggled to think of alternatives, Mrs Hudson rose and took her leave citing a show she wished to watch.

‘Take him some of those biscuits with the phone—he’s far too thin.’ As he closed the door behind her, Sherlock’s phone chimed again, the screen bearing the same demand.

John’s list of alternatives came up pitifully short: Send the phone with a cabbie—but Sherlock had mentioned that that required money, and the only thing he knew of money thus far was that he didn’t have any; or, take the phone himself and risk getting lost or caught or some other dreadful thing. He looked longingly to his pot, wanting only to curl up in his flower state and enjoy a bit of sun.

 _No._ Sherlock needed him and he was Sherlock’s—flatmate? friend? flower? Well, he was Sherlock’s something and Sherlock needed him. It was a simple enough task. Sherlock had repeatedly told him that he was a quick learner, not such an idiot as the rest of the population. Time to live up to that assessment. _I can do this._

He sat down to Sherlock’s computer and quickly mapped out the route. South, west, south and he’d be there in minutes. Nothing too difficult—he hoped, wondering what the map wasn’t showing him.

John paused only a second before opening the street door. From the steps, he looked up and down the street once, then took a deep breath and walked out into the crowding masses of London.

The streets were not unusually busy this day. No surplus foot or vehicular traffic. No accidents to force a detour. Not even puddles of rain to splash mud upon the incautious pedestrian. But to John, it seemed that London was a writhing cacophony of danger, a peril designed solely for his terror.

John had walked several blocks, trying to move quickly but somehow invisibly, when Sherlock’s summons once again rang out from the phone he clutched in his hand. He stepped closer to the building on his right, stopped, and looked at it. _I should tell him I’m on my way._ But Sherlock seldom put the phone down, always had it in hand or pocket, in use or at the ready. John had never really looked at the device and had no idea how to respond to the texts.

‘Uh, don’t you hate having to figure out a new one?’ The speaker was very near John, leaning in the doorway of a café. And looking right at him.

‘I just got a new phone a couple months back’, the woman continued. ‘I say the companies should keep making them the same. Nuisance having to learn the buttons all over every time you get a new one.’ She shouldered herself away from the building and took a step closer, peering at the phone John still gripped. ‘Nice one. My wife wants one like that, all the bells and whistles. I told her maybe for our anniversary.’

John had frozen as soon as he’d realized the woman was talking to him. At her step towards him, he had held his ground only through fear of bumping into someone behind him. The woman looked him in the eye and grinned. ‘’S’alright, love. I don’t bite. And I’m not trying to steal your fancy phone, either.’

‘Thank you’, he said, finally managing to respond. She chuckled and stepped closer yet, close enough to nearly brush John as she looked at the screen.

‘Oi, demanding one, eh?’

‘Yes’, John said softly.

She looked back to him. ‘You alright?’

‘Yes’, John repeated, taking a half-step sideways. ‘I just…’ She widened her eyes, encouraging him to continue. ‘I haven’t used it yet. You’re right’, he continued, relaxing as he found words, ‘they should make them the same. A real nuisance.’ He ended with the smile that always made Mrs Hudson smile back and was pleased to find that it worked on this woman, too. The phone chimed again, displaying a new message. ‘Where are you? SH’

‘Worrier is she? He?’

‘He. Yes. No. Sometimes. Well, impatient. I should respond.’ He looked back at the screen considering all it presented. ‘Reply’, he corrected himself, touching the button.

His unexpected acquaintance stepped suddenly away from him, looking across the street with a smile.

‘Here’s mine. Late as usual.’ Her face shifted and she sighed. ‘And already started’, she added quietly. She offered a sad grin and ‘Good luck with yours’ before walking away.

John tucked himself closer to the wall and typed out ‘On my way. J’, hesitated, finished spelling out ‘John’, and sent the message before stepping back into the stream of people. The phone remained silent for the rest of his journey.

John resumed his brisk pace, weaving about and around people and fixtures. When once he found himself deep in the middle of a pack waiting at an intersection, he felt several bumps against him. He froze, fearing the worst. But the only acknowledgements of the incidents were a few quick apologies—no one gave him a second glance. He relaxed some just as the group moved forward, his mind on the dual paths of following his directions and considering that he must not be so easily detectable after all. Sherlock had said he felt wrong. _Perhaps Sherlock doesn’t know how people should feel?_

Finally he could see ahead of him the flashing lights of emergency vehicles, their piercing sirens thankfully silenced. A small group of onlookers was just beginning to disperse and most of the uniformed officers were getting into cars to drive away. Two men stood in conversation with Sherlock. John had begun moving even faster once he’d spotted Sherlock and he now jogged the remaining distance between them. A uniformed officer looked like he might try to stop John’s progress, but the grey-suited man with Sherlock waved the officer away.

‘Ah, good’, Sherlock said, taking the phone John held out but continuing to type one-handed on another. The rat-faced man to his right reached to grab that second phone. ‘If you don’t mind!’ he snarled, but Sherlock spun away, pressed a few last keys, then handed the phone to its owner, his eyes already on his own. Rat-man _humpfed_ angrily and stalked off.

The other man had turned his attention to John, who moved to put Sherlock somewhat between them, looking about uncomfortably under the man’s assessing gaze.

‘Who’s this?’ he asked.

‘He’s with me’, Sherlock replied, his fingers never hesitating in their dance over the keypad.

‘Yeah, but who is he?’

‘I said, he’s with me.’

‘Listen, Sherlock, you can’t be inviting random people to crime scenes. It’s bad enough I’m letting you at them.’

‘Yes’, Sherlock pronounced, breaking his focus to stare with force at the man. ‘Because you need me.’

The official looked weary. ‘Yes I do, God help me.’ He extended a hand to John. ‘Detective Inspector Lestrade.’

John didn’t even have time to panic before Sherlock slipped between them, grabbing John’s arm as he did so.

‘Come along, John. We’re done here.’

‘Hey’, Lestrade called. ‘You’ve barely said a word. Do you have anything for me or not?’

Sherlock never paused as he assured the DI: ‘You’ll have the thief’s name and location within five hours. Be ready to make the arrest.’

John glanced back to see Lestrade raising his arms in a frustrated gesture, then fell in beside Sherlock.

John waited until Sherlock had sent the message to Lestrade, ‘Karen DeRodesko, 20 Old Brompton Road, South Kensington’, four hours and thirty-seven minutes later. He knew already that Sherlock would not respond to an interruption while working on a case. But now, as he placed a sandwich and several of Mrs Hudson’s biscuits on the desk before Sherlock, he asked, ‘Why were you so rude to them?’

‘What should I be to them?’

‘Polite. Nice. Respectful—they are law officers. A Detective Inspector is important, right?’

Sherlock scoffed, said ‘I’ve no need to be “polite” to them’, and bit into the sandwich.

‘Why not?’

‘As I reminded Lestrade earlier today, because they need me. It’s the person that needs something that has to be nice to the person providing for that need.’

John left Sherlock to his meal and returned to the kitchen to do the washing up.

The next morning, John set about the routine he’d established: unfolding himself from his flower state, dressing, carrying his pot downstairs to place on the window ledge, and heading to the kitchen where he set the kettle to boil, prepared a bowl of oatmeal, and made a cup of tea. He then deviated from that routine—which would next have seen him placing the meal on the table while calling ‘Breakfast!’ down the hall—by stirring a spoonful of honey into the tea and setting the food on a tray. This he wordlessly carried down the hall, balancing it on one hand to let himself into Sherlock’s room. He set the tray on the bedside table and, just as Sherlock was opening one curious eye to see what John was about, he sat himself on the edge of the bed angled toward his flatmate.

‘Well?’ Sherlock prompted after they had spent a moment staring at each other.

‘I need you.’

Sherlock’s eyes flared wide, then narrowed as he studied John, who continued to sit quietly beside him.

‘What for?’ he asked suspiciously.

‘Food, water, a place to keep my pot. All of the things you’re teaching me.’

‘Ah.’ Sherlock smirked as he sat up, reached for his tea, and took a sip. ‘So, you’re being especially nice to me this morning—bringing me breakfast in bed, adding a bit of honey to my tea—because you need something more today. Is that it?’

‘No.’

Sherlock set down the tea and took up the oatmeal. ‘Alright, why then?’

‘What do you need me for?’

Sherlock shrugged. ‘Nothing, really. I can make my own oatmeal, you know. And tea. I can even do the washing up after’, he stated, beginning work on the cereal. John didn’t move, simply sat with his hands in his lap looking steadily at Sherlock.

‘You needed me yesterday, although I don’t know for what really.’

‘Well, you did bring me my phone’, Sherlock conceded around a mouthful of food. ‘That was handy.’

‘But what did you really need me for?’

Sherlock looked bothered. ‘My phone. That was all.’

John turned away, pursing his lips, then looked back to Sherlock.

‘You didn’t forget your phone yesterday. You never forget your phone; it’s always with you. You left it lying there. It wasn’t even charging. You left it so I’d have to bring it to you. Why?’

Sherlock looked approvingly at his friend and returned the bowl to the tray. ‘Very good, John. You’re right—I left my phone on purpose. But if you can figure that out, surely you can figure out the rest.’

‘Nope.’ John shook his head.

Sherlock sighed. ‘What happened when you brought me my phone?’

John spoke slowly, recalling the scene. ‘I saw you being rude to those police officers. You kept typing. Detective Inspector Lestrade introduced himself to me, but you got me away before we could shake hands.’

‘Before that.’

‘You handed the other man his phone. Anderson—?’

‘Before that.’

John shook his head. ‘I don’t know.’

‘Alright then, what happened _after_ I sent the texts requesting my phone?’

‘I ignored them for a bit, asked Mrs Hudson if she could take it to you, and then looked up the directions online.’

‘And between getting the directions and handing me my phone…’ Sherlock looked expectantly at John.

John shrugged. ‘I followed the directions.’ Realization lit his face. ‘Oh.’

‘Precisely’, Sherlock confirmed. ‘You finally set foot outside of this flat without me. And visited your first crime scene, although you took so long to get there that you didn’t get to see it properly. Next case, you’ll just come with me.’

John lowered his head and sat in thought while Sherlock finished his breakfast. Just as the man was moving to push off his blanket, John looked back up at him.

‘You didn’t answer my question.’

Sherlock got out of bed, pulled on his dressing gown, and began gathering clothes. ‘What question?’

‘What did you really need me for?’

‘I didn’t need you for anything, John. _You_ needed to get out of the flat on your own, and so you did.’

‘Only so I’d do it again, go to another crime scene. Why do you want me at crime scenes? I don’t know anything about police work or detecting, not much anyway. I could never do what you do.’ John rose to stand by the door. ‘I can’t help you. So why? Why could you possibly need me?’

Sherlock ground his teeth together and looked down upon John. ‘I don’t’, he stated coldly and strode past John and into the bathroom.


	12. Developments

Sherlock spent the remainder of that day and most of the next draped over the sofa, book in hand, wishing he had a case. And ignoring John.

John, who moved quietly about the flat, dusting and scrubbing; who continued his self-education through books and the internet; who watched the evening news with close attention; and who, at one o’clock and eight o’clock, placed meals beside Sherlock, smiling and looking as if he would speak. In the evenings, he did speak, asking ‘Is this OK?’ as he set down a bowl of soup. Sherlock made no reply, and John’s smile faded as he stepped away.

Later that second night, John replaced the now-cold soup with Sherlock’s evening cup of tea and took himself and his pot upstairs. An hour after that, Sherlock dropped the book that he had held before him all day, not bothering to mark his place as he’d actually read so little of it despite the number of pages he had turned. He scrubbed his hands roughly through his hair, then took himself to the kitchen to make a fresh cup of tea and possibly some dinner. Without a case to distract him, he was getting a bit hungry; the soup John had offered had smelled good and been difficult to forgo.

Sherlock stood guard at the kettle, not wanting it to whistle and potentially alert John that he was up and feeding himself. The man would probably come downstairs and attempt to take over. _And that_ , Sherlock decided, _is not going to happen_. The strange little plant creature had insinuated himself into far too much of Sherlock’s life far too quickly. _Time to put an end to his meddling._

The water began to boil and Sherlock quickly took it up and poured some into his waiting cup. As it steeped, he remembered the honey John had added to his morning tea and decided to indulge again. He deserved it, after all, considering what he’d had to put up with from John recently. The flower-man was by turns eager and reluctant, wanting more knowledge but refusing to do anything with it. He wanted to learn about the world beyond the front door, but had to be dragged or tricked out of the flat. He wanted to be useful to Sherlock, but would only perform menial tasks and baulked at helping with the legwork often needed on a case. He had even stopped organizing Sherlock’s case notes after just one day at the task. All he ever did was sit about and ask questions. _How does a radio work? Why do people walk on treadmills? What’s a canary?_ (Although Sherlock had to concede that that question had expedited a case’s resolution as it had caused him to consider the canary as the means of starting the fire in Chef Gans’ kitchen.)

And now, _now_ John wanted to be needed. Sherlock wondered what John would do with ‘being needed’ if he ever got it.

Sherlock stirred a healthy dose of honey into his tea, then dipped into the jar again. He watched the honey slide smoothly down the spoon and gather into a stream to flow back into the vessel. With a twist, he interrupted the stream and popped the spoon into his mouth. As he licked it clean, he held the jar to the light and squinted up into the sun. It was just the sort of hot, clear day that Mother most loved for tending to her garden. But the garden wasn’t the same without her hand upon it. Father’s new woman—Abigail or Emily or Camilla, he could never remember which one was current—had ordered the hives removed. Many of the roses were gone, replaced by frivolous fuchsias and painted daisies, and the soft mosses that had cushioned the central paths had been torn up to make way for brick. He looked about him at colours that were all wrong, blues and pinks and yellows vying for prominence. ‘Mummy would never have let it look like this.’ Sherlock ignored his brother’s words, his presence. Mycroft hadn’t lived with them for five years—he knew nothing of Mother. He knew nothing at all, despite the fancy degree he’d just earned. ‘Sherlock.’ A hand on his shoulder. He fell away from it, crouching low and curling into as tight a ball as he could manage. ‘You can’t ignore me, Sherlock. You can’t make me go away. I’m here. You’re not alone.’ Couldn’t Mycroft see that he was nothing but alone, that alone was all he had? No Mother, no home, not even the gardens and the hives that had once been. All of the harmony that Mother had nurtured and worked so hard to bring to life, now gone. And there was no chance for it ever to be right again—Sherlock lifted his face once more to the sun—now that Mother was gone. Like so many things, the garden was broken beyond recognition, beyond repair. He looked out again at the confusion of colour, bent down to grasp a clump of marigolds, wanting to tear them to shreds, but found only the teaspoon in his hand. He dropped it, let it clatter and skip under the table.

Forgetting his tea and any thought of food, Sherlock returned to the sitting room and lay back down on the sofa. There, he rolled over and planted his face firmly against the cushion in denial of the tears that had begun tracing down his face.

John looked up from the book he was reading when Sherlock suddenly rose, grabbed his jacket, and left without a word. Sherlock hadn’t spoken since his harsh declaration two mornings ago that he had no need of John. The two had continued in a silence broken only by their occasional movements about the flat and John preparing meals that Sherlock barely acknowledged. As his departure had been preceded by neither call nor text, John assumed he was leaving for the lab at St. Bartholomew’s Hospital that Sherlock had shown him one afternoon. John carefully wrapped and put away the sandwich that Sherlock had left untouched. Each time John had put food before Sherlock over those two days, John had smiled. Twice he’d asked, ‘Is this OK?’ He was always ignored.

He checked his plant—soil amply moist, leaves a healthy deep green—then stood looking out on Baker Street. Noticing his reflection in the windowpane, he noted also that it felt like the only proof of his existence he’d had in two days. When he saw Mrs Hudson approaching, carrier bags in hand, he hastened downstairs to help her. As he emptied the bags and she put packages away, she naturally offered him tea and biscuits, ‘lunch, if he’d wait.’ John declined the lunch but accepted the biscuits, furtively wrapping several in a handkerchief. They were store-bought, imprinted with a swirling design, a type that John had seen Sherlock eat more than his usual of. Perhaps a preferred sweet with his dinner would improve his mood.

Abruptly diverting from her usual chatter, Mrs Hudson looked hesitantly at John and asked, ‘I don’t suppose Sherlock left the rent with you, did he?’

‘The rent?’

‘I hate to ask, but it is a few days past due.’

John was at a loss—‘rent’ was not a word he knew. ‘Can you tell me what it looks like?’

‘Well, I suppose he might have put it in an envelope.’ She saw John’s unease and told him, ‘Oh, don’t bother yourself about it. I’m sure he’ll bring it ’round soon enough himself.’

When Sherlock came back late that night, John clicked off the telly and dutifully placed the sandwich on a plate, added the biscuits, and took it to Sherlock. Sherlock ignored both the food and John’s accompanying smile.

John paused where he stood, considering what he might say. On returning to the flat he’d looked into the meaning of the word rent, hoping it would enable him to find it lying about so he could be of some use to someone at least. Enlightened now on the topics of rent, leases, money, building codes, government-subsidized housing, bed bugs, and Gothic architecture, he felt he should mention Mrs Hudson’s query. He had hoped to have more time to think about just what to say.

‘That OK?’ he asked, gesturing to the sandwich. Nothing. John turned to go, turned back, fidgeted a bit, and thought some more. He could see Sherlock’s growing annoyance, so he opted to dive in, simply stating: ‘Mrs Hudson asked about the rent.’

Sherlock’s head snapped around and he glared at John. ‘Why should she ask you about the rent?’

‘She just wanted to know if you’d left it’, he replied, grateful that Sherlock was speaking even if it was angrily. ‘She said it was past due.’

Sherlock looked away. ‘I know it is.’

‘What should I tell her if she asks again? Is it here?’

‘Just tell her I’ll get it to her soon.’ Sherlock settled into his chair as if to begin a hearty sulk, but John didn’t want him to stop talking so soon.

‘Where do you get your money from?’

‘It grows on trees, John’, Sherlock retorted. John perked up at that; he’d not read of it online.

‘What kind of trees? Maybe we can grow a small one here. I’d take ca—’

‘Oh, you would believe that, wouldn’t you’, Sherlock groaned. He turned to John. ‘Money does not grow on trees. It’s minted and printed by the government. And you can’t have any unless you’ve done something to get it.’

John took his chair across from Sherlock’s. ‘So, what do you do to get yours?’

‘I work for it.’ Sherlock looked utterly beaten by this confession. ‘At Bart’s. I do some lab work there. It’s the most dreary and tiresome sort of work imaginable, but they pay me for it. Also, I can use the lab whenever I like.’

‘What about the people you solve cases for? And Lestrade? Is that work that gets you money?’

‘Sometimes.’ Sherlock picked up a biscuit, nibbled the edge, then threw it back down and thrust himself up to his feet to begin pacing from fireplace to sofa and back. ‘Some clients give me money, when they haven’t anything else to offer.’ At John’s querying looked, he explained, ‘Items I need, like my laptop. Favours I can collect on in future. Services performed’—he gestured to his suit—‘like tailoring. Free meals at a restaurant.’ He stopped before John and quirked a wry smile. ‘Impossible seeds that grow into sentient plants with the ability to take human shape.’ John smiled.

‘What about Detective Inspector Lestrade? What does he give you?’ Sherlock turned away and resumed pacing. ‘You do an awful lot of work for him’, John prompted.

‘He gives me interesting cases.’

‘But no money? No favours?’

Sherlock looked surprised at John. ‘I just said—he gives me interesting cases.’

‘You work so you can do more work?’

‘I solve interesting cases so I can get more interesting cases.’

John thought a bit, then inquired, ‘The police—they get paid money, don’t they?’

‘Of course.’

‘So why don’t they give some to you?’

Sherlock halted, looking intensely uncomfortable, pursing his lips tightly and avoiding any glance at John. In the stretch of time until he finally answered, John began to worry that Sherlock had stopped talking again.

‘Lestrade does sometimes’, Sherlock spoke quietly. ‘When he thinks I need it. Look—’ Sherlock sat down in his armchair again, leaning forward to explain to John—‘I’m a _consulting_ detective. I don’t work for the Met, not officially. When they’re out of their depth, which is always, they call me. But their superiors don’t condone the use of “amateurs”, as they like to call me, in their investigations, so the Inspectors either make sure they don’t find out I’ve been consulted or their superiors turn a blind eye and pretend their people actually know what they’re doing. Not that I want mention in their reports. All that matters to me is the work!’

John digested this rant, then asked, ‘So, being a regular police detective…?’

‘Absolutely not! They’d expect me to follow their rules, which is never going to happen.’

‘Even if it meant you could pay Mrs Hudson?’

Sherlock looked like he’d been slapped in the face. ‘I’ll pay her’, he insisted, rising to pace again. ‘It’s just— I wasn’t able to get a flatmate. I thought maybe I would, but I’m a difficult man to get a flatmate for. And now…’

‘I’m here.’

Sherlock stopped and smiled across the room at John. ‘Better than any flatmate I could have got through an advert.’

‘I could hide’, John offered.

‘No. No’, Sherlock repeated as John would have tried again. ‘Out of the question.’

John was disappointed that Sherlock refused his attempt to help, but pleased that he seemed to want him around again.

‘Do you ever ask your clients for money?’

‘Like a common tradesman?’ Sherlock looked ill at the thought.

But John ploughed on. He had a strong feeling that not paying the rent was wrong on several counts and he was determined somehow to get money to do it. Since he could not yet work himself—had Sherlock explained economics to him when he’d early on mentioned the idea of John getting a job, John would have been far more focused and practical in his education—Sherlock was going to have to earn the money for now. John could at least help him to do it.

They had not sat up so late nor talked so long at once since their first day together, but the hours were well-spent. By the time that Sherlock noted John wavering in his chair and fumbling with his pencil, they had considered, discussed, researched, and written a bare-bones business plan. But when John would have set a fee schedule, Sherlock said, ‘Not now. You’re too tired.’

‘I’m fine’, John protested.

‘You’re exhausted. You need to get back to your plant.’

John knew the truth of that, so he conceded. ‘Fee schedule first thing tomorrow, then. Over breakfast.’

‘Yes, fine.’

John put aside the notes he’d taken and stood, swaying widely. Sherlock jumped up to steady him, pushed him back into the armchair, and retrieved the pot from the window. He set it beside John and commanded, ‘C’mon. In you go.’

‘But—’

‘I’ll carry you up. Now get in.’

John smiled up at Sherlock—‘Thanks’—then contracted where he sat and toddled into his planter to settle in for the night.

On returning downstairs, Sherlock glanced at the plan John had written. A completely unnecessary document, in his view, but it had put off the discussion of fees for a while. He knew it was a practical, sensible thing to do, but he still hated it. _Money._ It carried too many problems, caused too much grief. Barter was infinitely better. At least John had been amenable to including provisions for it in the plan. And Sherlock would not have to bother himself with the fees as his new business partner had agreed to handle all of that.

Sherlock smiled fondly at the chair opposite him, recalling John’s earnest exhortations and assurances, his fluid and open expression moving from pleading to pleased and everything in between, ending on his smile just before transforming for the night. When other people smiled at Sherlock, it was with wariness or want, deception or desire. When John smiled, there was none of that. It was just a smile, a simple sharing of joy or pleasure. Just right.


	13. An Identity

At a car park the following afternoon, while Sherlock gave his usual performance scouring the scene, Lestrade took the opportunity to start his own investigation.

The small blond man was not the first person that Sherlock had ever brought or called to a crime scene. Over the five years that Lestrade had been consulting Sherlock, he had seen the detective in contact with eight different persons not related to the incident at hand. Five of these were plainly members of the Homeless Network to which Sherlock occasionally referred: their dress, their movements, their eyes—all spoke of life on the street. They were all seen to arrive with or be sent for some item or information that Sherlock required. Another person had approached Sherlock as Lestrade and his team watched from a nearby alley, waiting for Sherlock to give the signal to close in on a suspect. It was obvious from that interaction that the stranger had mistaken the pale, gaunt youth on the street corner as being there for a particular purpose, and that he had been set straight with impressive ferocity. Then there was the large, affable former convict—Lestrade remembered the B&E he’d done time for and the murders he hadn’t—that once brought Sherlock a hot lunch on a cold day. Before Donovan was done with her mocking comments on Sherlock’s oft-made assertion that he never ate while working, one of his homeless arrived with a note and left with the food. Finally, although appearing before any of the others, on just the second case Sherlock had worked for him, there was The Brother: tall like Sherlock, with eyes that cut through you just the same, but apparently enjoying far more money and resources than the younger Holmes. Lestrade would never forget the chilling dockside chat with The Brother, the offer that had been made, his own refusal, the way the man had chuckled at the thought of being charged with kidnapping or attempted bribery of a police officer.

Each of these people had been dismissed and sent away after Sherlock was done with them. (Well, The Brother had not been so much dismissed as ignored into non-existence.) At the end of the day, Sherlock always left alone.

Until this ‘John’ had delivered his phone just days prior. John, standing at Sherlock’s side like he belonged there, had neither looked nor acted homeless; could not, from his appearance, have been a relative. Lestrade couldn’t recall his face from previous attendance on Sherlock or from the too-numerous mug shots that he had fixed in his brain. A different type of acquaintance, then. One that left with Sherlock and was included in his use of the word ‘we’. Lestrade had given Sherlock five minutes to examine the scene; he gave himself the same time to examine the stranger.

‘John, wasn’t it?’ John, focused on Sherlock, had not noticed Lestrade walk up behind him.

‘What? Oh. Yeah. Yes, Detective Inspector.’ John thrust his hands firmly into his trouser pockets and moved a short step away.

‘John —?’ Lestrade prompted.

‘John. Yes.’ Recognizing that Lestrade was searching for another name, John nodded toward Sherlock. ‘You call him in quite a bit, don’t you?’

Lestrade shifted his gaze to Sherlock, on his back, straining to examine a car’s undercarriage. ‘I guess I do’, he acknowledged, slipping his hands into his pockets and adopting an easy stance. ‘He likes the weird cases and we get our fair share of them at the Met. Always seems to figure them out in the end. Known him long?’ he inquired, turning back to John.

‘All my life’, John offered with a small smile.

‘Really? Huh.’ Seeing the slight question in John’s expression, he added, ‘It’s just I would have thought he was a fair bit younger than you is all.’

‘Oh. Well, you know. Approximately all my life.’ Lestrade gave a quick, indulgent smile.

‘So’s he always been like this?’ Lestrade nodded toward Sherlock, magnifier in hand, now manically circling the support pylon against which the car pinned the lower half of a body.

‘As long as I’ve known him’, John offered. Lestrade’s smile changed to one of sympathy.

‘And what do you do? When you’re not following Sherlock to crime scenes.’

‘The housework, mostly. And reading, learning whatever I can.’

‘Ah, unemployed then?’

‘Yes. But, a lot of people are these days, yeah?’ he added, emphasizing his normalcy.

‘Yeah. Which doesn’t help the crime rate any. How’s your neighbourhood that way? You live nearby?’

‘221B Baker Street’, John recited. ‘I don’t think there’s much crime there.’

Lestrade’s brows peaked as he looked from John to Sherlock and back again. ‘You’re living with Sherlock?’

‘Yes.’ John nodded confirmation.

‘Ohh.’ Lestrade crossed his arms over his chest and John felt his scrutiny intensify. It was as if the detective were employing Sherlock’s methods, cataloguing and considering, albeit in a slow and obvious fashion. Sherlock must have felt it, too, because he just then left off his search and looked to John and Lestrade.

Striding toward them, he asked, ‘Problem, Detective Inspector?’

Lestrade answered affably, ‘No, no, just getting to know your flatmate here.’ There was a hesitation before ‘flatmate’, a question in the word.

‘Wouldn’t your time be better spent examining the crime scene, doing your job so I don’t have to?’ Lestrade’s smile disappeared. ‘You needn’t worry; John’s not the criminal element you’re all so afraid I’ll take up with.’ At Lestrade’s look, he continued, ‘Oh, come on, Lestrade. I’m quite familiar with your “analysing the suspect” look.’

‘Professional hazard’, the detective granted. Returning to his friendly demeanour, he asked, ‘So where did you two meet?’

‘St. Bart’s. Couple of months ago. I was looking for a flatmate and so was John. Mutual acquaintance introduced us.’

While Sherlock smiled, pleased with the back-story he’d been developing for them, John’s face froze. Lestrade looked quite interested in the reactions of both men. ‘Really?’

‘Something wrong with two men taking a flat share together?’

‘Not at all. Except, John just said he’s known you all his life.’

Sherlock turned enough to hide his scowl at John from the Inspector’s interested gaze. Before he’d turned back to offer further fabrications, John jumped in. ‘It’s just that I feel like my life began when I met Sherlock.’ He smiled and hoped he’d said the right thing. Lestrade’s shock was unmistakable, as was his effort to hide the grin that followed it.

‘What a lovely sentiment, John’, Sherlock said tightly. He then addressed himself solely to Lestrade, providing the DI with a physical description and two probable motives for the murderer, as well as several places to begin looking for the missing top half of the body. On his final word he launched himself at the exit, his long strides requiring John, agog yet from Sherlock’s rapid analysis of the scene, to jog to catch up.

‘Thanks’, Lestrade called after them, allowing his grin full expression. ‘I’ll be talking to you, John.’

John wanted desperately to know just how he had erred—he knew he had—but didn’t dare to ask. Three blocks away, Sherlock halted and spun on him.

‘“I feel like my life began when I met Sherlock”? Really, John, however did you come up with such a thing?’

‘It was in a show on the telly, something Mrs Hudson was watching. Seemed like it might fit.’

‘Well, it didn’t.’ Sherlock resumed his march home.

‘What was I supposed to say?’ John asked from three paces behind.

‘You might consider saying nothing if that’s the best you can come up with.’

‘I had to say something—he was asking questions.’ John jogged forward again. ‘I told you people would talk to me.’

‘And I told you to say nothing. Let me handle the talking.’

‘I did say nothing when he wanted my last name.’ Struggling to stay abreast of Sherlock, he leaned in slightly and spoke lower. ‘I think I should have a last name. Won’t people wonder?’

Sherlock stopped again and stared hard at John. Finally his face relaxed a bit as he said, ‘Yes. They will; you should. Obviously I brought you out too soon.’ He turned and resumed walking, now at a slower pace that accommodated John’s shorter stride, and began enumerating the items John required: ‘Last name. Place and date of birth. A fleshed-out story of how we met.’ He cast a displeased glance at John on that one. ‘And now, with Lestrade’s suspicions raised, an official, documented presence. He _will_ look into your background once he gets a full name from you. He isn’t _quite_ the idiot his peers are.’

‘“Official, documented presence”. And how do we do that?’

‘Through official channels, of course.’

On reaching the flat, they sat down to discuss possibilities, but Sherlock spoke less and stared out the window more as time passed. Eventually John abandoned attempts at talking with him. He left a cup of tea at Sherlock’s side and took his pot to his room.

At some later hour, Sherlock took up his violin, tuning it as he glanced over the notes John had taken that night. All worthless, he knew. He cleared his head with a tempestuous bit of Paganini, then settled into Sarasate’s _Romanza Andaluza_ , his body moving in harmony with its passionate grace. Mind cleared and focused, he could apply himself afresh to the problem at hand.

The problem was not in creating an identity—Sherlock could easily construct the story of John’s supposed existence. Nor was the problem in obtaining the necessary documents, records, and accounts to give proof to the lie—Sherlock knew enough of the right people, was owed enough favours, that it could be accomplished within the week. Even Lestrade or some other official down the line verifying John’s background posed no threat as the documents would be real, official, indisputable. The problem was much as it ever was: outwitting and outmanoeuvring Mycroft.

Mycroft would notice—must already have noticed—the extra person living at 221B. He also would have looked into the identity of this man and found that he had none. Would have found no matching face in any database in Britain. Would have extended his investigations to other countries, perhaps. Certainly would have started a record of John’s actions, interactions, and modest travels around London. Considered now, it was a wonder that Sherlock had not already had a visit from his brother since John’s appearance. Or that John hadn’t been scooped up off the pavement and whisked away to a private meeting in an empty warehouse.

_I’ve been too distracted,_ he thought. _Absorbed in John, like a child with a new toy._ It was time to rectify that situation.

Sherlock stretched out on the sofa, hands held prayer-like under his chin, and thought.

He took as working facts: 1) John had been noticed; Mycroft had been curious. 2) John had been discovered to be a non-entity; Mycroft had been intrigued. 3) John’s sudden transformation into an entity would bring Mycroft to full attention, that attention brought to bear on both John and Sherlock. 4) Mycroft could, would use evidence of this illicit creation of an identity at some future time, far or near, to manipulate Sherlock. 5) Worst of all, John would be imperilled by Mycroft’s attention. What would the man who was often the British government itself do with a being like John?

When John returned to the sitting room the next morning, he found Sherlock at the window, in the very posture that he’d last seen him the night before, untouched tea cold beside him. He moved softly to take up the cup and empty it into his pot. As he was placing the container on the ledge, Sherlock spoke: ‘I think, John, it’s time you met my brother.’

The hardest part was the phone call. Sherlock knew the words he would have to use and, even knowing how worthy the cause and that using Mycroft in this way was a victory in itself, it galled him still to use them.

‘Hello.’ Mycroft’s voice held the slightest note of question.

‘Hello, Mycroft.’ A silence, each brother waiting on the other.

Finally: ‘I haven’t the time for games, Sherlock. If you’re going to tell me to piss off again, best to keep it to texting.’

‘I—’ Sherlock stopped, swallowed, ploughed on. ‘There’s something I need.’

And that was all it took to cause the British government to close up shop and make an early day of it. That single word— _need—_ without a negative modifier, entirely lacking in rancour or sarcasm, spoken by a man that had forgotten the little boy he had been. To the only man left who remembered that little boy and all the unanswered needs of his youth.

A short hour later, Mycroft Holmes, for the first time in his adult life, was courteously invited into his brother’s home. It was John that opened the door, led him upstairs, and offered to take his umbrella, but Sherlock sat almost demurely in his chair by the fireplace and did nothing to impede this flow of events.

Brief introductions were made. Tea was offered. Unnecessary pleasantries were omitted. Mycroft seldom took his eyes from his brother, but his interest never left John.

And then, without prelude or explanation, knowing that Mycroft already had a file full of the lack of information on John, Sherlock made his audacious request: an identity for his _friend_. Mycroft noted the use of that word, tucked it away for future consideration, and studied Sherlock, then John, then Sherlock again.

‘But where does John come from and why doesn’t he already have an identity?’ Mycroft would ask the annoying questions.

‘I don’t think you really want to know the answer to that’, Sherlock replied briskly. Mycroft tilted an eyebrow. ‘You wouldn’t believe me if I told you. It’s too fantastic.’

‘Sherlock, of the many things you have been in life, you have never descended to being—fanciful.’ He spoke the word with a moue of disdain. ‘If you tell me the truth, of course I will believe you.’

Sherlock stared at his brother. Mycroft stared back. John sat silently on the arm of the couch, giving the brothers wide berth. Mycroft had taken his chair upon entering, but John didn’t mind; having had Sherlock’s brief telling of the animosity between them, he preferred to be well away from the action.

Sherlock drew a breath and reconsidered their options one last time. But this was the only option: not to entice Mycroft’s scrutiny through subterfuge, but to draw it fully onto himself and John both; shock him, allow him the favour of granting a favour, and share a truth that Sherlock would another day fight valiantly to hide. Mycroft couldn’t be expected to make it easy. _Fine, then, if the truth is what he wants._ Sherlock wouldn’t regret keeping from John earlier the acknowledged necessity of telling his secret now.

‘John came out of a plant. Out of its flower, actually. In point of fact, he _is_ the flower.’

Mycroft studied his brother: face, manner, posture. He knew well what a brilliant actor and liar Sherlock was, but he also knew how to see through his acts and lies as only a brother—as only Mycroft—could. And he saw that Sherlock was speaking the truth, or at least what he believed to be the truth; but Sherlock was very good at discerning the truth, too, so what he claimed to be a fact could generally be taken as such. Mycroft also knew the plain fact that people did not spring from plants, that they could never actually be flowers. John was a flower; John could not be a flower. Two facts, each contradicting the other. Mycroft hated those kinds of facts. Always so inconvenient.

So Mycroft considered John and the man’s reaction as Sherlock had spoken. He had startled at Sherlock’s statement. A quick sidelong glance confirmed the fear remaining on his face. Startled and afraid that Sherlock had revealed his secret, but not astonished at the explanation as he would be if Sherlock had fabricated so extraordinary a tale on the spot. So, this man believed himself to be a flower and wanted to keep that a secret. And apparently they had agreed that the secret would be kept. In the span of two blinks, Mycroft ran through dozens of possible means of reconciling all of the facts before him, but the facts simply would not allow themselves to be reconciled. Therefore, Mycroft took the only option left to him.

‘Show me’, he said, smiling pleasantly.

Sherlock turned to John. Some wordless accord was reached and John nodded, the panic melting from his face to be replaced with a stoicism that would be the envy of any British male.

‘Very well’, Sherlock said, turning back to Mycroft.

John stood and walked to the window, tucking himself out of sight from the street behind the drapes. Sherlock did not turn away from his brother, but watched John’s transformation as revealed by Mycroft’s expression: eyes narrowing as John walked to the window, preparing to analyse whatever data were presented; eyes widening as John shifted size and shape, effectively disappearing; narrowing again as he tried to process what he had seen. Sherlock was fairly beaming at his brother’s perceptible confusion and discomfort. _Oh, it’s Christmas!_ Mycroft stood and moved slowly to the window to look down at the simple potted plant, an actual look of perplexity on his face.

He peered down at the blossom, trying to discern anything like a human shape. Leaned closer, squinted, leaned back. He had raised his umbrella barely an inch off the floor when Sherlock informed him: ‘If that umbrella or any part of you gets any closer to John, I will kill you with your own handkerchief.’

Mycroft let the umbrella hang in the air a moment, then rested it on the floor again.

‘He can come back, I assume.’

‘Of course’, Sherlock replied. ‘Step back and he can reappear right now.’ Mycroft obliged, never taking his eyes from the curious plant. ‘John, if you would.’

The bloom released itself from its stem and fell into the soil below as a tiny humanoid figure that jumped over the edge of the pot and grew suddenly back into John-the-apparent-human. Mycroft made note of the facts that would have to be changed and looked John in the eye.

‘What sort of identity would you like?’

The identity that Mycroft delivered four days later was actually borrowed, which saved work, he said, in coming up with the details. There were no difficulties with his first name, and John gained the sturdy-sounding surname of Watson. The John Watson that had been was an army doctor that had served in Afghanistan for nearly the entire war and occupation. He had met an unfortunate end five months before, having been shot through the shoulder and bled out on the field of battle before another medic could arrive to save him. He had spent little time in England during those years, given instead to taking his leave in explorations of other countries and, it was reported, the female inhabitants thereof. His parents were dead. His only family was an estranged, alcoholic sister that would likely never notice that her brother’s identity had been co-opted for a stranger’s use. The identity even served to provide John with a small income, as Dr. Watson was granted a pension in recognition of what he had lost in service to his country. Official records were re-written to reflect that Capt Watson had been saved in the nick of time and invalided home to London and that the doctor held a particular interest in pharmacognosy.

On the occasion of his becoming a citizen, as it were, Mycroft presented John with a wallet containing his ID and bank card. Sherlock gave him a text on general medicine. John gave them both his thanks and set about becoming John H. Watson, MD.


	14. Realisations

Sherlock sat John down and instructed him on how to manage his bank account online. Their progress was slowed by John’s questions on banking, pensions, finance. While John familiarized himself with the Business section of _The Times_ , Sherlock checked John’s balance. As he had expected, it was substantial, but at least it was all attributable to five months back pay on the government pension. No donations from Mycroft.

Once he understood what he had and more about how to use it, John inquired how to get hold of it. A trip to the bank and one withdrawal later (with a side trip to the cash point for informational purposes), John knocked on Mrs Hudson’s door. Sherlock was already on his way up the stairs. He had barely spoken since the withdrawal had been made and he pointedly did not look when John’s path took him down the hall to 221A.

Mrs Hudson was openly surprised at John’s mission. And curious as to his sudden good fortune.

‘I am sorry I’ve been behind in getting my half of the rent together’, he recited as he’d practised to himself on the walk home. ‘There was just a bit of a mix-up in getting my pension to me. Government stuff, you know. But as soon as the money was in my account, I wanted to make sure we were paid up.’

‘Pension? Aren’t you a bit young to be retired from anything, John?’

‘It’s a war pension’, he explained.

Mrs Hudson’s eyes lit in fascination. ‘You never said you were a soldier.’

‘I don’t like to talk about it.’ Sherlock had assured him that no one would ask further questions once he said that.

‘Oh, you poor dear. Of course you don’t.’ She gently patted his shoulder. ‘Well, thank you for the rent and, any time you want someone to talk to, any time at all, you just come ’round and we’ll have a cup of tea.’

John arrived upstairs to Sherlock sulking through his violin. The few weeks he had spent with the man had taught him that Sherlock was not to be interrupted once he’d picked up the instrument, so John went to sit on the landing half-way up to his room.

Sherlock had been buoyant for several days, pleased, he’d said, about besting the old goat (Mycroft, John realised). His happiness had extended to the moment Mycroft had presented the folder with John’s history and legal documents. _No,_ John recalled. _Until Mycroft had mentioned that John Watson was a pensioned veteran._ Sherlock’s face had turned sour and he’d barely contained his annoyance, while Mycroft seemed increasingly self-satisfied.

_Annoyance with what?_ The fact that John had been made a soldier? Mycroft had sent a brief sketch of the man the day before his presentation, so Sherlock had known John was to be a doctor, but the soldier aspect had not been mentioned. Perhaps Sherlock didn’t like soldiers. But John wasn’t really one, so why should it bother him? Perhaps Sherlock had been a soldier himself and ‘didn’t like to talk about it’?

Or was it the pension? Sherlock shouldn’t be displeased with the money, especially as it had enabled them to pay Mrs Hudson what they owed. Once he’d begun reading up on it, John saw that money really was rather important. Odd that Sherlock never seemed to have much, did little toward obtaining it. Indeed, he was still resistant to the fee schedule that John looked forward to employing the next time a private client came their way.

While he could not understand Sherlock’s reluctance to get money, he saw that it had to be difficult for him not to have it when he needed it—for the rent, his food, taxis, nearly everything in this world. Fortunately, John now had an immediate solution to Sherlock’s problem, one that needn’t wait on a client.

John went to the kitchen to make a lunch and, when the music subsided, he carried it in to Sherlock, now stretched out on the sofa. He held the plate out and asked, ‘Can you teach me something else today?’

Sherlock ignored the proffered food and only sighed.

‘Sherlock?’

‘Not now, John’, was the muted reply.

John set the plate on the coffee table and sat beside it. ‘It’s sort of important.’ No response. ‘I used the last of the bread for your sandwich just now. We need more. Teach me how to shop?’ John now understood why this lesson had not already taken place.

Sherlock closed his eyes and tucked his hands beneath his chin. John knew what that meant, but—

‘Don’t do that. I need to talk to you.’

Sherlock scowled but did not open his eyes. ‘And I need to think. Now go away.’

‘Think about what? You don’t have a case.’

‘Cases aren’t the only things I think about.’

‘You weren’t a soldier, were you?’ John asked, sure of the answer. Sherlock opened his eyes at that and turned a bewildered face to John.

‘Of course not. Where would you get an idea like that?’

‘So it is the money.’

Sherlock spent four full seconds staring in shock at John, then quickly sat up, stepped onto and over the coffee table, and started for his room.

‘Why are you upset? Isn’t the money a good thing?’

Sherlock rounded on John. ‘Money is only a good thing when you have it. You have some now. Congratulations. It’s why Mycroft chose that soldier’s identity for you, I’m sure. So you’d have money. And to emphasize the fact that I _don’t_.’

‘Of course you do.’

‘Do you really think, if I had money, I’d not have paid the rent myself? Stocked the cupboards with something more than rice and beans? Taken a cab instead of walked twenty blocks to Lestrade’s last crime scene?’ Sherlock was shouting down at John, who stood in open-mouthed astonishment at this never-before-seen wrath. ‘Trust me, John, I wouldn’t be eating rice and beans if I had money for better.’

‘But you do—’

‘Are you being deliberately obtuse?’

‘Are you?’

That silenced Sherlock. It was his turn to stare open-mouthed at John.

‘Don’t you see? All that money in the account. It’s not mine; it’s ours. Yours, really.’

‘Mine?’

‘Isn’t that how it works? Whatever is mine is yours because I’m yours?’

‘You—? Mine?’ Sherlock looked confusedly to John’s pot sitting in the early afternoon sun. Pot, soil; both were, he supposed, his, a gift from Mrs Hudson. The seed that John had sprung from, also his, given in payment for a case. John’s food purchased with Sherlock’s own few pounds. And had he not stood in this same room just weeks ago, mind similarly racing, staring at John and seeing him as a gift—incredible, wonderful, but still only _a gift he’d been given_. Led John to the kitchen to teach him another meal to cook, begun a mental list of all the tasks John could perform for him. Left him to the housework and all the menial tasks about the flat since then. Suggested as soon as John could read that he could do the shopping, the very chore John was now asking to learn. Sherlock looked back to John looking up at him uncertainly, waiting for Sherlock to proclaim to whom his life belonged.

And how easy it would be. To say, ‘Yes, of course you’re mine, you and all you possess. Any money you acquire, any skill you learn, your very life mine to command. My servant, my slave, my—’

‘No.’ Those other words would never come. The proprietary feeling had not left him and Sherlock could not say when or how the change had occurred, but John was no longer his in quite the same way in which he had begun.

‘No?’ John fell back a half-step looking a little lost.

‘You may have grown from a seed I planted, John, but you are still your own man’, Sherlock assured him, glad of his own certainty. ‘The money is yours’, he said softly. ‘Use it as you like.’ He turned again toward the hall.

‘Then I want to give it to you.’

In the end, only one argument would dissuade John from handing over the entire sum in his account: that Sherlock would soon—due to John’s efforts—have more of an income than his pittance from Bart’s and free meals at a few restaurants. Also, they both agreed that the rent would never be late again so long as they had the money for it, never mind which of them contributed the larger share.

And Sherlock did soon have a paying client in the form of a certain Miss Brown. She sat in John’s chair and hesitantly revealed to them the story of her two sisters and the man that had disrupted the lives of all three women.

Her younger sister had met this Mr Armitage, fallen in love, and become engaged in short order. Their older sister, a fair-skinned beauty used to employing her looks in order to get her way, had made several comments about how he should be with the right woman; it was only too obvious to Miss Brown that she wanted him for herself. As the wedding day approached, the younger sister had begun having health issues—seizures, the cause of which was still unknown—and was not doing well. As they all awaited a diagnosis, her older sisters were taking turns seeing to her care and Mr Armitage was standing by her in her illness. However, Miss Brown had twice caught her older sister working her wiles on him while she was supposed to be looking after the younger and feared that the beauty would soon have her way: Mr Armitage’s affections seemed to be drifting away from his fiancée and toward the other sister. Miss Brown asserted that she was not suspicious by nature, but she had grave misgivings about the whole situation, especially the sudden onset of such a serious condition in her previously healthy sister.

Some element of the case appealed to Sherlock—John was never sure why he chose the cases he did—and he agree to take it. When Miss Brown inquired about fees, Sherlock shot a quick glance at John, then jumped up and disappeared into the kitchen, pulling shut the glass doors behind him. Their client looked questioningly at Sherlock’s hasty and ungracious departure.

‘I handle all of the financial aspects of the business’, John assured with a smile. ‘Frees Sherlock up to devote all of his energy to solving the case. And lets him get to work immediately.’

‘Oh.’ A smile. ‘Alright. But, well honestly, if I can’t afford the rates, and he’s already started investigating…’

‘We always work with clients to make sure that money doesn’t keep you from getting the help you need’, John explained, bringing up the information on the laptop.

Five days later, her face bearing both happiness at her younger sister’s already-begun recovery and horror at her older sister’s treachery, Miss Brown handed John a check for £500 and a promise of free admission and behind-the-scenes visits to the aquarium where she was a guide.


	15. Tests

It was a month later and the heat of July had descended upon London with a ferocity nearing that of the March winds. Pedestrians lost their usual haste, strolling when they would normally have hustled. The drone of window fans and air conditioners threatened to drown out cars and buses. Cafés sold more iced coffees and teas than hot and added sorbets to their offerings. Within 221B Baker Street, John was fastidious in caring for his plant, rotating it frequently, constantly checking the moisture level of the dirt, and pulling it back into the shadows of the sitting room when the sun shone its brightest so his leaves would not be burnt. Sherlock divided his time between experiments in the kitchen and lolling on the sofa, alternately engrossed in chemical explorations and despondent at the lack of cases. The oppressive weather seemed to have slowed the entire city, including the criminals.

John had spent the intervening weeks studying medicine, mostly, although he was still prone to mental side-treks. He could occasionally relieve Sherlock’s boredom by having the detective quiz him on his reading, but Sherlock didn’t care to do it often as, he said, he didn’t want to risk cluttering his brain with unnecessary data. John protested that medical knowledge could hardly be called unnecessary: Sherlock needed to stay healthy and even tend to his own injuries at times. When Sherlock said, ‘That’s what I have you for’, John blanched and simply studied harder. He didn’t know if he would ever really be able to practice medicine, despite the papers that said he could, but the prospect fascinated him. And Sherlock was depending on him.

This time also saw Lestrade’s first visit to the flat since John had taken up residence. He said he came by instead of calling because he wasn’t sure if Sherlock would be interested in the case (he wasn’t) and didn’t want to call him out for nothing. Sherlock’s response—‘Don’t lie if you’re going to be so bad at it’—led to a formal introduction to Dr John Watson, the inspector’s real reason for visiting. John made certain to familiarize Lestrade with an array of the facts and fabrications that made up his identity. After a while, Lestrade seemed to leave detective mode. He settled back into the sofa and chatted amiably, casting only occasional querying looks between Sherlock and John. Sherlock quickly lost interest in the dialogue, seemingly satisfied that Lestrade was satisfied and would not cause problems. John was relieved as well. He also found that he enjoyed talking with Lestrade—‘Greg’, he insisted—and took full advantage of the opportunity to practice his conversational skills.

Aside from that visit, Lestrade interrupted their routine only three times that month. He presented only one case worthy of Sherlock’s attentions, the two others ‘easy, pedestrian’ cases that Sherlock refused out-of-hand, brusquely informing Lestrade that he could handle them himself. For all his rudeness, John suspected that Sherlock had texted a hint or two to the DI anyway.

Their only case of note during that time actually came from Mycroft. John walked into the sitting room to drop off his pot one morning and found the man already occupying his accustomed chair. John’s, of course.

‘Good morning, John.’

‘Good morning’, John returned. ‘Um—’

‘Yes, I know he’s not up yet. I’ll wait.’

John nodded, set his plant down, and made for the kitchen. As he opened his mouth to offer tea, Mycroft interjected, ‘No, thank you. I’ve already had two cups this morning.’

John paused, shrugged, and continued his breakfast preparations. A moment later Mycroft came to stand in the doorway, scrutinizing John. When John would have asked if he wanted breakfast—eggs, sausages, baked beans, and toast, now there was money for such—Mycroft declined that ahead of the question as well. He then anticipated John’s ‘What brings you by?’ query by holding up the folder in his hand and stating, ‘A bit of work for my little brother.’ John turned back to the stove and ignored Mycroft for a few minutes, concentrating instead on not burning the eggs. As he plated the meal, he smirked and looked up to fix his no-blinking-required stare at Mycroft. Mycroft’s expression did not deviate from its usual pleasant detachment—for the first 15 seconds. Then his eyes narrowed slightly. At thirty seconds, he took in an abnormally deep breath. At the end of a minute, after Mycroft had unconsciously moved his umbrella from his side to his front and just as he was opening his mouth to speak, John finally called out, ‘Sherlock! Breakfast!’ and set the plate on the table.

‘You’re right’, he said, smirking again. ‘Best he gets it before it gets cold.’

Mycroft smiled sourly and went back to the parlour, this time taking Sherlock’s chair, continuing his scrutiny at a distance.

John met Sherlock as he came down the hall and motioned with his head to indicate Mycroft’s presence. Sherlock merely grimaced and sat down to his food. Mycroft did not attempt interaction until Sherlock had begun to eat. Then he gave only a quick outline of the matter and instructed Sherlock to contact his office if he needed anything that the file didn’t cover.

As Mycroft moved toward the door, Sherlock said, ‘I haven’t agreed to do anything for you.’

Mycroft glanced at John, said ‘It’s not for me’, and left.

When the street door had thudded shut, John asked, ‘I thought you said he wouldn’t make you do anything in exchange for my identity?’

Sherlock spun the folder around and began flipping through it. Misappropriation of government funds, bribery, kickbacks, price-fixing in the lumber and masonry industries. And what did Her Majesty’s government need straw for?

‘It’s not for your identity, John. It’s for your secret. It’s for your life.’

John pushed away from the counter where he’d been leaning. ‘You said he wouldn’t tell anyone’, he said worriedly.

‘He won’t.’ Sherlock stood and took the folder to his desk, stopping for a book on the way.

‘Then why are you doing this for him? You said you hate when he tries giving you cases’, John continued, following Sherlock into the next room.

‘This one’s interesting.’

‘So, you’re only taking it because you’re interested in it?’

‘Of course.’ Sherlock spread documents and photographs around his desk, organizing them to his liking.

‘Then why did you say it was for my life?’

‘Mycroft thinks it is.’

‘I don’t follow’, John said, shaking his head.

‘Then be quiet so I can think. And get the washing up done—I’ll need you later.’

Then came the evening that Sherlock interrupted John, about to take himself upstairs for the night, to request his ‘assistance with an experiment’. He handed John a small beaker and instructed: ‘Just a few drops in your water as usual.’

‘What is it?’

‘Test compound 5.’ John looked at the liquid in the beaker, gave it a swirl, then looked back to Sherlock.

‘What are we testing?’

‘The compound, of course’, Sherlock replied, grabbing hold of John’s shoulders to spin him around and march him up the stairs, explaining as they walked: ‘Have you forgotten? I’ve formulated this just for you, as I said I would.’

‘What’s in it?’ John asked.

‘Same things that are in your usual food: nitrogen, potassium, potash, some iron and zinc.’

John planted his feet on the landing to resist Sherlock’s final shove toward his bedroom door and waited.

Sherlock grinned. ‘And a few extras, some things to boost its efficacy.’

John thought of the kitchen table, covered in an array of apparatus, note books, unlabelled bottles, and print-outs. He had watched Sherlock some evenings, between trying to feed him and retiring for the night, as the scientist in his friend came to the fore. He had researched, mixed, tested, logged results, mixed more, tested more, and on and on for at least three weeks. John recalled the noxious fumes that had twice driven Sherlock from his work and knew of at least one small fire. And the result of all of that had been…

John looked again at the liquid, pale green, a bit thicker than water, and, John was sorry to admit, a little scary despite its innocuous appearance.

‘My regular food has been working just fine.’

‘And you’re willing to settle for “just fine” are you? Don’t be common, John. Give this a try. If I’m right, this formula will give you more energy. You might be able to spend more time off your plant.’

John resisted the bait and continued questioning. ‘And what if you’re wrong?’

Sherlock looked offended at the suggestion. ‘We can always reformulate. Go on now.’

John couldn’t help but be nervous, but he didn’t want to offend or, worse, disappoint Sherlock, so he conceded. ‘Alright. But you’re staying up to watch over me and help out if anything feels wrong. We can go back down and do this in the kitchen if you want.’

Sherlock’s smile was gleeful. ‘Of course I’m going to stay up; I have to take notes. In your room, though—want to limit the variables.’

So John placed himself in his accustomed spot on the night stand, administered test compound 5, ignored the flickers of curiosity regarding compounds 1-4, and returned to his flower state. He tried not to dwell on what it seemed his flatmate already knew: that he very much wanted to be able to spend more time away from his plant. More time to study, to learn. More time to go to crime scenes with Sherlock. More time simply to be in this world. He was aware while a flower, but he could never participate. And this world, even in its quiet moments, was something he very much wanted to participate in.

Sherlock’s experimentation on John Food ran intensely for nearly a month, paused only when there was a case. He sat vigil many nights, notebook in hand, and ‘woke’ John every hour for reports. In the end, test compound 12 was declared to be the best—John felt much the same but found he could stay away from his plant two to three hours more with no problems and no side effects—and the constant testing subsided. Sherlock would occasionally deliver a new compound to John after that, but never so frequently again until—

Ah, but that is a part of this tale that must wait its time to be told.


	16. A Confrontation

Leaning against the wall downstairs from their flat, giggling with Sherlock who giggled even as he gasped for air, John felt, knew, down in his roots that this was the best that life could ever be. And he wanted more. Of all of it. Cases, chases, criminals, conspiracies, coppers, cabbies—he giggled harder at the ridiculous thought that ‘C’ was the most exciting letter in the alphabet. Sherlock smiled broadly at him, nearly glowing with the thrill of their just-ended run.

They had barely regained their composure when Mrs Hudson emerged from the hall to 221A, her face split between a bemused echo of their laughter and worry over—

‘Sherlock, what have you done?’

Sherlock sobered abruptly. ‘Mrs Hudson?’

‘Upstairs’, she gestured.

Sherlock shot a look of concern at John, then they were both dashing up the steps. Throwing open the door, Sherlock demanded, ‘What are you doing here?’

‘I just stopped by for a friendly chat.’ Lestrade smiled easily. He sat in Sherlock’s chair like a lazing king. Sally Donovan stood just behind and to his side. The sergeant’s eyes went wide and she took a half-step back before she drew her arms around herself, pressed her hands to her sides, and rigidly stood her ground.

‘You can’t just break into my flat’, Sherlock insisted, looming over Lestrade.

‘I didn’t break in.’ Lestrade was unfazed by Sherlock’s attempt at intimidation. ‘Mrs Hudson let me in. She’s very nice, you know. You’re lucky to have such an agreeable landlady.’

‘Too agreeable, it would seem.’ Sherlock glanced at Sally. ‘I doubt you’re here for anything “friendly”.’ Spinning about and beginning to pace, he asked, ‘What’s this about? You know I’ll contact you if there’s any progress on the case.’

‘Maybe you want to tell me why you’re a bit sweaty and panting’, the Inspector suggested.

‘As I was about to text you, I think I know who your serial killer is. I’d know for sure, maybe even have delivered him to Scotland Yard for you, but he happened to drive faster than either John or I could run.’ Sherlock paused and straightened his cuffs and collar, reclaiming his usual crisp appearance.

‘You were chasing a car?’ Lestrade asked, surprised yet not. Of course Sherlock would chase a car on foot.

‘A cab, in fact, licence number 91197. The driver is your man. Last seen heading west on Marylebone Road. You might want to call that in.’

‘You’re certain?’ Lestrade asked, standing and already drawing out his phone. Sherlock looked at him in annoyance. ‘Right’, the DI acknowledged.

While Lestrade set the arrest in motion, Sally maintained her stiff posture close to the grey chair. Her eyes never left John, who, after a wary moment watching the exchange between the two men, had slipped into the kitchen. Whatever the problem was that Lestrade and Donovan had brought with them, tea, John was certain, would help to fix it. Honey, too, he decided, and reached for the jar in an upper cabinet.

Sherlock had noted Sally’s fixed stare and nervous stance and watched now as she drew in a sharp breath and craned her neck somewhat, as if trying to see more of John. He glanced quickly at the man, but he was doing nothing more interesting than preparing tea. When Sally realized she was being watched as she watched, she transferred her glare to Sherlock, then began to look searchingly around the room, eyes flicking frequently back to the kitchen.

Lestrade had moved slowly about the room as he gave orders and requested an Armed Response Team to be readied. Directing that he be informed the moment the cabbie’s location was known, he ended the call and came to a stop in the archway between rooms. He leaned casually against a glass-panelled door.

‘Now maybe you want to tell me why John _wasn’t_ sweaty and panting when you got back from your little run.’

Sherlock’s eyes flashed with realization. The ‘friendly chat’, Sally’s scrutiny, and now Lestrade standing strategically between himself and John. Someone had seen something. Sally, of course, that’s why she was nervous. She’d seen John doing something a human shouldn’t be able to do. _No, not now. Not when everything’s going so well._ The images flashed before him: John, _his_ John, taken away, placed under glass, studied, poked at, dissected and experimented on. Even as these nightmares churned his stomach, he found words to try to deflect Lestrade’s interest.

‘And why should he be?’ Sherlock asked. ‘We didn’t run that far and John’s simply in better shape than I am. He hides it under loose clothing, but he’s really quite fit. And me—well, too many cigarettes.’ He gave a smile calculated to convince and relax his audience.

Lestrade had spent five years working with Sherlock and had seen him question enough people that he knew the smile too well to fall for it readily. He glanced over his shoulder at John.

‘That so, John? Some sort of marathoner, are you?’

‘ _Breathing is boring_.’ Those had been Sherlock’s words when he had found John practising various forms of respiration, adjusting his minimal, constant rate to mimic other human patterns: gasping, snorting, holding it, panting. One of so many things he’d done to blend in, to hide in plain sight, and yet he’d forgotten it just when it had been most important. _I got distracted,_ he thought. _Caught up in the moment. Idiot._ He couldn’t pretend to sweat—couldn’t very well push his xylem to the surface on cue—but he should have been breathing noticeably. It was too late to correct the error now, but Sherlock was trying, was, for John’s sake, preparing to spin lie after lie in an effort to protect him, so John would try, too. He turned to Lestrade and gave his best.

‘You’d think, as a doctor, I could convince him to quit. But he keeps sneaking out for a pack.’ He looked across the ocean of space between them and admonished Sherlock, ‘Probably threw out that last box of nicotine patches I gave you, didn’t you?’

Sherlock looked at Lestrade with the appropriate level of shame. ‘You know how it is.’

‘That I do’, the Inspector granted, briefly placing a hand over the inside of his left arm.

‘Sir, you can’t buy this crap!’ Sally broke her silence in a furious burst. ‘I told you what I saw. It was real. The fact he’s not breathing hard just makes it worse. God, is he even breathing at all?’

‘And what is it you think you saw, Sergeant?’ Sherlock demanded as if he were a Chief Superintendent questioning a rookie Community Support Officer. Sally quailed a moment, then rallied to make her declaration.

‘I saw him stick his arm through a sewer grate and pull out the vic’s phone. It had to have been 10 feet to the bottom of that drain, at least, and he just snaked his arm all the way down and came up with the phone. Like it wasn’t an arm at all. Like it was… some kind of tentacle!’

 _A vine,_ Sherlock thought. _More like a vine. She can’t even get that right._

‘I know what I saw’, Sally was still ranting. ‘That arm.’ She pointed at John, shuddering at the picture her memory presented. ‘That arm is not human. _He’s_ not human. He’s a … a _f_ _reak!_ ’

John knew just the moment she meant. Sherlock had determined that the killer must have dumped the phone near the crime scene, so they had split up to search for it. ‘Pink’, he’d said. ‘It’ll be pink. You won’t be able to miss it.’ And indeed, so garish was the shade that his pocket torch had caught it out even at the bottom of the drain, closer to 15 feet than 10, he reckoned. He had been in a hurry. He had looked around, but not enough. He had reached for the phone, retrieved it—thinking only of pleasing Sherlock with how quickly he had found it—and had not noticed Sally in the area.

 _A second more,_ he thought. _If I’d looked around just a second more, I’d have seen her and this wouldn’t be happening._ He closed his eyes, prepared to surrender.

Sherlock wasn’t near to giving up, though. He summoned all of his considerable disdain for Sally Donovan into one impressive scoff.

‘Could you be more ridiculous?’ he exclaimed. ‘A tentacle? Really, Sergeant, if you’re going to spin stories, you might try making them a little more believable.’

‘I know what I saw—’, she started again, but Sherlock just spoke over her.

‘You saw a man reach into a grate and pull out a phone. Tell me: Does your superior vision allow you to see through tarmac? Did you actually see this “tentacle” in action? Or did you maybe forget to _think_ and didn’t realize that the phone wasn’t actually at the bottom of the sewer but was caught in a snag of rubbish hanging from the grate itself? Which happens to be just how John told me he found it.’ Sherlock had crossed the room to tower over Sally, who gaped furiously at him. As he turned and threw himself into his chair, he finished, ‘Lestrade, if you’re going to disturb me at home at this late hour, you could at least stick to the facts and spare me the fairy tales.’

The DI had watched Sherlock’s performance closely. He didn’t want to disturb the relationship he had with the detective; Sherlock was much too valuable as a consultant. But Sally was a member of his team, and a reliable one at that. He knew he could trust her and knew equally well that she wasn’t given to tale-telling or hysteria. Sherlock’s explanation of the phone’s location was plausible; likely, even. But there had been something off about John from the start—the things he said, the way he said them, gaps in his knowledge, an apparent reluctance to speak of himself. That reluctance at least had passed, and he had spent nearly an hour one afternoon here in this flat learning about John, learning to like John.

But the weirdness still hovered at the edge of every interaction. And when Sally had come to him in a panic, convinced she’d seen the impossible, certain that John’s arm and hand were something unnatural, Lestrade had realized one more oddity: he had never shaken hands with the man. They’d met enough times it should have happened. He might even have assumed it had, but looking back he could see the pattern of John always being somewhere else, or hastily pulled away, or laden with something that couldn’t be set down. His father had always said that you should never trust a man that wouldn’t shake hands with you. So, he had come here tonight to ask questions, to satisfy Sally, and to shake John’s hand.

Lestrade smiled. ‘I’ve always liked fairy tales; happy endings and all that. Thanks for explaining about the phone.’

‘What? But, sir—’ Sally protested.

‘Sergeant.’ Lestrade stood away from the wall and straightened his back. ‘It is a perfectly reasonable explanation and, I’m sorry to say, a fair bit more believable than a man with a tentacle for an arm.’ He spoke gently but firmly, careful not to mock her but leaving no opening for rebuttal. ‘Alright, John?’ He turned back to the kitchen. ‘You understand I had to look into it. No harm done?’ And then he took two steps to stand before John and extended his hand.

John stepped back. Lestrade had moved too quickly and John was practically trapped in the kitchen. The only escape was down the hallway to Sherlock’s bedroom or the bathroom, but it would look bizarre if he fled outright. He regretted that the kettle hadn’t even boiled yet; a hot mug to shove into Lestrade’s outstretched hand would be lovely at present.

‘I’m telling you I’m sorry. You won’t accept my apology?’ Lestrade’s question halted John’s racing mind and he just stared, first at Lestrade’s questioning face, then at the dangerous hand still on offer. If he wanted to, Lestrade could reach that hand out mere inches more and touch John’s own hand, gripping the counter’s edge, and find out just how inhuman it felt. John contemplated attempting to make his knuckles whiten as a man’s should when he was holding on for dear life, but he feared botching the job due to nerves. And what was the point? It was over.

‘What’s the matter, John? You won’t shake my hand?’

‘Leave it, Lestrade’, Sherlock ordered, but quietly and with a hint of pleading in his voice. The man turned at that. Sherlock had silently risen and walked up behind him. He now met his gaze, held it as he said, ‘He won’t say it, doesn’t want it mentioned at all, but John was a prisoner of war. He was held by enemy forces for two months and now he doesn’t want to be touched. Do you really want to push this issue, Inspector?’

Lestrade’s right hand hovered an instant longer, then moved up to push through his hair. Exhaling loudly, he looked again at the former soldier, his face twisting with anguished guilt, shoulders suddenly sagging under recollections of his own grandfather’s stories of wartime horrors. ‘God, John. I’m sorry.’ He no longer offered his hand with his apology but tried to back away. Sherlock stood aside to let him pass, then shifted back to become a barrier against further assault on his friend.

‘I trust we’re done here’, Sherlock said.

‘Yeah’, Lestrade sighed. ‘Yeah.’

‘Sir—’

The DI brought a hand up to silence Sally. ‘We are done here’, he enunciated carefully. Her face tightened further and she hastened from the room, keeping as much distance between herself and John as she could manage and clattering noisily down the steps. Lestrade moved slowly, heavily to the door, said ‘I’ll let you know when we’ve got the cabbie’, and left.

Sherlock moved to the front window and stood as sentinel until both officers had crossed the street, got into a sedan, and pulled away. Only then did he relax his shoulders and let his head fall forward to the glass.

‘I cannot wait for winter’, he declared.

‘Winter? Why?’ John asked, moving to Sherlock’s side.

His head still resting against the window pane, Sherlock turned awkwardly to grin at John.

‘Because then I will buy you an excellent pair of gloves.’


	17. A Fright

The kettle finally boiled and John returned to the kitchen to put away the extra cups and make just one for Sherlock. Sherlock met him halfway and they both sat in their accustomed chairs near the fireplace. John leaned forward slightly, a worried look on his face.

‘I’m sorry’, he said. ‘It was so stupid of me to forget the breathing. And really—’

‘Yes, yes. It was stupid. Don’t do it again’, Sherlock said quickly. ‘Time to move on.’

John looked surprised. ‘I thought you’d be angry. I could have bollocksed everything—’

‘Do we really need to dwell on this, John?’ Sherlock snapped. ‘It’s done.’

Sherlock really didn’t want to dwell on it. Not on the mistakes, not on the nightmare visions that had stormed through his mind, and certainly not on the cyclone of panic in his chest just now beginning to break up and disperse. All he wanted at that moment was to enjoy a leisurely cup of honey-sweetened tea while John sat across from him looking safe and well. John unknowingly obliged him.

It was on a Wednesday that John decided that, even had Sally Donovan, Lestrade, and half of Scotland Yard been watching, he would have morphed his body anyway. Not back when he’d been reaching for that silly pink phone—he still regretted that—but here, now, in this rickety old house, with two angry kidnappers and Sherlock trying to talk his way out of getting shot by the mean-looking one. Not that they weren’t both mean-looking, but there was an extra layer of mean to the one holding the pistol, a vicious glint in his eyes that was simply unmistakeable, even to a man who had come into this world only a few months ago.

And so, just when Really Mean was looking especially twitchy and his partner was oh, so conveniently twisted around to bark at the hostage screaming under a burlap hood, John struck. One hand reached out across the seven feet between them to grasp the gun while the other crossed the distance and wrapped twice around Really Mean’s leg. One fierce pull on the leg and Really Mean toppled, landing with a rumbling thud. The gun slipped his grasp and John drew it instantly to himself. Barking Mean didn’t have a chance to do more than turn his head back before Sherlock was on him and, seeing the gun in John’s hand, he gave no fight.

Sherlock checked them both for additional weapons, then went to release the woman from her bonds. Really Mean had himself morphed into Really Confused. He lay on his back gaping at John, mumbling about the fastest moves he’d ever seen. By the time DI Dimmock and three uniformed officers had arrived in response to Sherlock’s call, Sherlock had traded places with John, who attempted to apply some part of his studies to helping the victim. He took care not to touch her directly, although he suspected that she was deep enough into shock that she’d never notice his odd touch. He mostly just held a portion of Barking Mean’s hastily ripped up shirt to her cracked lip and spoke calming words. He readily gave way to the paramedics when they arrived.

As soon as he was free, Sherlock claimed him and marched him down the two dusty flights of stairs they’d crept up forty minutes before.

‘Who was that man you called?’ John asked as they descended. ‘Where was DI Lestrade?’

‘Dimmock. Youngest DI on the force. Just promoted. Better for this case.’

‘Why better?’ John asked.

Sherlock didn’t respond. Noting his friend’s fast, angry stride as they left the building, John didn’t repeat the query. Once they were clear of the building and away from any police, Sherlock responded in a fierce undertone: ‘Because if that idiotic kidnapper realizes that it wasn’t all of you moving, just your arms, we don’t need a repeat inquiry from Sally and Lestrade.’

‘Oh.’ John hurried to keep pace with Sherlock, assuring him, ‘I’m not sorry I did it. Not this time.’

‘Well you should be. I had the situation well in hand.’ John gave a doubtful look. ‘I did’, Sherlock insisted. ‘There was no need for that little display of stupidity in the guise of bravery back there. You should think of your own safety.’ He stopped and faced John, his voice dropping to a low hiss. ‘No more morphing if there’s a chance that you’ll be seen. As in anywhere outside of the flat.’

‘He had a gun, Sherlock. Pointed right at you’, John protested, breaking into a jog to catch up as Sherlock strode off.

‘And no intention of using it. He’s never fired it before—too scared. Doesn’t want to face murder charges. Obvious from the way he held the thing.’

‘You’re making that up.’

‘Am I?’ Sherlock stopped again to glare down at John. John opened his mouth to speak, but Sherlock cut across him. ‘I’m serious, John. Don’t do it again. You can’t go around wilfully throwing yourself into danger every time we go out on a case.’

Sherlock started to march off again. John goggled at him, yelling at his back: ‘You’re one to talk!’ Sherlock spun around.

‘What?’

‘Maybe you want to talk about going up to that room just now without calling the police beforehand. Or about running all over London all times of night, dodgy areas. Throwing yourself on Chinese assassins. You want to talk about willfully endangering yourself—’

‘That’s different’, Sherlock spat. ‘I can take care of myself. And you, when it’s just vicious criminals and over-enthusiastic Detective Sergeants I have to worry about. But I’m not so sure I can save you from yourself.’ John tried to speak, but Sherlock ground on. ‘I mean it, John. You’ll stop taking risks or you’ll just stay home!’

With a growl, he turned and resumed his march toward the main road. John stood a moment, hands flexing in and out of fists at his sides, then pivoted 180° and struck out on his own at a brisk pace. By the time Sherlock had hailed a cab and was holding open the door to motion John in, John was gone.

Sherlock lay on the sofa, hands steepled on his chest. He glared at the door through closed eyes, willing it to open and reveal John. Seven hours had passed since they had left the kidnappers’ hideout. Sherlock had spent the first hour directing an amenable cabbie up and down the side streets of Croydon looking for John, then searching on foot. In the second hour he had slowly made his way home, stopping to spread £10 notes and John’s description among the homeless. After 45 minutes of pacing the flat, interrupted once by Mrs Hudson, who took the brunt of his frustration and anger, he had thrown himself onto the sofa for a calmer consideration of the situation.

Calm was a state that Sherlock was finding it surprisingly hard to achieve. He was accustomed to being able to put aside his emotions and bring logic to bear on any matter before him. This skill left many thinking that Sherlock was emotionless, but he knew that he was anything but. He knew the excitement of a good case, the thrill of the chase, the deep satisfaction that came from solving a Byzantine puzzle. He also knew the frustration of dealing with inferior intellects, the cold fury of having anything to do with Mycroft, and the occasional guilt or regret that might spring up when things didn’t go entirely as he’d planned. If he had looked back far enough into the corridors of his mind, he might even have remembered that he had once allowed himself the luxury of loving.

As soon as he had realized that John had disappeared (even in his own mind he could not say that John had given him the slip), the anger he’d already felt towards the man had chilled into an icy rage. That rage had not diminished as he had searched across London, but had warmed with every corner turned until it was a ball of fire behind his eyes and in his chest, keeping him agitated, pacing, and ready to burst. Bursting at Mrs Hudson had done nothing to relieve the burn and his thoughts had still chased patterns of chaos through his brain. He had finally sought peace in meditation: a few moments of rhythmic breathing, focussing on the very centre of himself, then a widening of awareness, taking in all of his body, the flat, the floors above and below, finally spreading his consciousness over all of London, knowing himself and the city to be one together even as they were each one apart from the other. The technique had never failed him.

The technique had never failed him before. He was calmer now—in time his fury had burnt itself off—but not more focussed. Certainly not so coolly aware of himself and his place as he should have been. The chaos remained, dancing a mocking jig across his brain. Because of this, it took him some time—and he would never admit how long—to realize the true emotion at the root of his anger: worry.

John was out in London by himself. He had been there longer now than he had ever been out alone. Darkness had chased the afternoon into night, and the London night held dangers. As those dangers paraded themselves across the shadowed walls of the flat, Sherlock considered what he might do. Calling the police was out; even though Lestrade would do him the favour of putting John on the missing persons list when he’d only been gone for a few hours, he couldn’t risk the suspicion that would raise or the chance of the police actually finding something beyond the ends of their own noses for a change. Likewise, going out himself to search more seemed pointless; London was simply too vast for one man to cover and, much to his frustration, Sherlock couldn’t guess where John would go.

John wasn’t like other people. He didn’t have regular haunts to frequent, family and friends to turn to, even old stamping grounds to draw him with their nostalgia. John only ever went out to run errands or to accompany Sherlock on a case. His world, his life were here in this flat. Particularly, Sherlock thought, as his plant sat in its usual place by the window. It was the first thing Sherlock had checked on returning, to make sure that John hadn’t made it back here before him and taken his whole self off to places unknown.

He twice considered contacting Mycroft. The second time he’d even opened his phone and placed his finger over the button that would activate the call. But he couldn’t do that, either. Despite what he’d told John, he still owed Mycroft for all he’d already done regarding John’s identity. He couldn’t owe him more now. Not just yet.

So he laid in the dark and kept thinking.

He startled when he heard the street door open, nearly jumped up to stick his head out the door and watch John climb the stairs. But that would have shown an interest in John’s movements that Sherlock absolutely wanted to avoid displaying. So, he laid back down and settled himself into looking entirely unconcerned about John, their row, or anything other than the insides of his eyelids. The inner door opened and closed, but then there was nothing. At least, no light thumping of John’s progress up the steps. Sherlock strained to hear, regretting that the flat door was closed, muffling sound from without. Perhaps John had gone to Mrs Hudson’s? Tea and sympathy? Maybe even a place to sleep? No, John needed to return to his plant; he could never make it so long as overnight without it. Aggravated, Sherlock opened his eyes and sat up, as if being inches closer to a door that he could now see but not see through would improve his hearing. Still nothing from below. Sherlock rose and crept to the door, pressing his ear against it. At last, a sound reached him: a soft thudding, then another. His eyes widened as he processed the sound, then he was ripping open the door and running downstairs.

He halted just short of John, sitting on the second step, tilted into the wall and utterly still.

‘John?’

‘Hi.’ It was a weak sound, a whisper of air barely contorted into speech. Sherlock stepped carefully past John and onto the landing, crouched down to examine him. No bruises, no cuts, so not injured—although he wasn’t actually certain what a beaten-up John would look like. The John before him certainly looked wrong: faded, features somehow off, a blue tint to his flesh that panicked Sherlock for the half second before he recalled that John was blue when a flower. Reverting to his natural state, then; so exhausted he was unable to hold any longer to his humanoid form.

‘Idiot. Look what you’ve done to yourself.’

John didn’t even look angry at the rebuke, only turned to Sherlock and offered a mumbled ‘Sorry’ before letting his forehead rest on the wall again.

‘Can you walk?’

‘Give me a minute?’

‘Never mind. I’ll bring your pot. Stay here.’ Sherlock barely reflected on the absurdity of telling a nearly immobilized person to stay as he ran up the stairs. He was back in an instant, holding the planter steadily beside John. John dwindled to just inches tall, Sherlock helped to set him in the pot, and then there was only a blue flower. As Sherlock studied it, trying to tell if it looked paler than normal or was ragged or creased, Mrs Hudson emerged from her flat.

‘What’s all the racket out here? Must you be always running up and down the stairs at all hours?’ She stopped berating him to look quizzically at the potted plant Sherlock held.

‘Sorry. Won’t happen again.’

‘Mm—I’ve heard that one before. What are you doing with that plant down here?’ she asked.

Sherlock never broke eye contact. ‘Nothing.’

‘Nothing but running up and down stairs. You should take better care of it’, she said, reaching out to stroke the blossom softly. ‘It looks a delicate thing. Surprised it’s survived you this long, considering what happened to that mum I—’

‘Yes, thank you, Mrs Hudson. Must be going. Good night’, Sherlock called as he hurried up the steps. ‘Pleasant dreams.’

Mrs Hudson looked after him, shaking her head.

Sherlock carried John immediately to his room, settling him in his accustomed spot by the bed. He mixed the usual dose of John Food into a small beaker of water, hesitated, then added two more drops and stirred again. After pouring it gently around John’s base, he sat on the bed and watched, willing away the worry that lingered within.

The sun fully lit the room when he woke. He was tucked quite compactly into himself on John’s bed. Straightening, he glanced at John, stilled, and jerked up to look down into the pot and its clear lack of John.

‘John!’ he bellowed, whirling around to find the man himself standing in the doorway, a steaming mug in one hand.

‘Good morning’, John replied, offering the mug. ‘No need to shout.’

‘Are you all right? How do you feel? Why are you up?’ Sherlock was beside him in a flash, once again scanning for signs of injury. But John looked his usual self this morning, neither faded nor ill-defined. Certainly not so exhausted as he’d clearly been last night.

‘I’m fine’, John replied. ‘Thanks.’ He kept his eyes on his toes. ‘Sorry about the… last night. I’ve got your breakfast on.’ He turned to go but Sherlock held him in place.

‘What were you thinking, running off like that? You could have got yourself killed out there alone. Not to mention what might have happened if you’d stayed away from your plant any longer.’

‘I guess I wasn’t thinking, was I?’ John snapped. ‘I was just angry. I didn’t like it— The sausages are going to burn.’ He pulled free of Sherlock and hastened down the stairs. Sherlock followed slowly. He sat at his desk, hands folded together before his face, and remained silent while John finished making breakfast. Now that John was back and looking healthy, calm was easier to manage. Even after John brought his food and returned to the kitchen, Sherlock didn’t speak or move for some time. Finally, he rose and went to stand behind John where he was wiping down the counter.

‘I’m right, John. You can’t give anyone the slightest chance to think that you’re anything other than human, anyone other than John Watson, former army doctor.’

‘I know that.’

‘And you can’t go running off for hours on end—’

‘I know! It’s just—’ John stopped wiping down the counter and leaned heavily against it, palms flat on the surface. ‘You said I was my own man. That I wasn’t yours. And that felt weird because I’d thought I was yours, but I got used to it and then you were ordering me around like I really _was_ yours. Which is it, Sherlock?’ he asked, turning to look straight up into the man’s eyes. ‘What am I?’

Sherlock didn’t like the look on John’s face, angry and challenging and just a little scared. He also didn’t like the way his thoughts were tossing around in heated confusion again, cool reason abandoning him for the second time in 24 hours. And he very much did not like the feeling in his chest that felt too much like the time he’d fallen into a dry flowerbed from a first storey window—all pain and no air.

‘You’re my… my…’

John’s eyes sank to the floor. ‘Yours.’

Sherlock grabbed John’s face in both hands and forced him to look up at him.

‘You’re my friend and I prefer you alive. Let’s try to keep it that way, shall we?’ And with that, he marched back to the living room to attack his now-cold breakfast.


	18. Stories

Sherlock had observed that, when at home in just Sherlock’s company, there were certain times when John gave up all pretence of acting human: his varied breathing reverted to its natural slow and shallow pattern; blinking stopped; even his posture changed, his body taking on a more supple appearance. At these times, Sherlock knew that his friend was concentrating deeply. He almost envied John his capacity to so nearly _stop_ the physical and devote himself entirely to the mental. Years of practice had given him the ability to keep the physical out of the way until it was needed. Meditation and strength of will meant that he could go without food and sleep, could ignore most bodily functions, could almost shut out the world entirely. But John hadn’t even needed to learn; he was still by nature.

A quiet evening in late September found John sitting at the living room table in this state of stillness while Sherlock worked in the kitchen. Sherlock occasionally glanced up from his microscope to see John unmoving before a blank word processor screen. John had several times over the past two weeks asked why Sherlock kept no narrative record of his cases, only dry notes and an assortment of supporting evidence. From these queries and the rapt attention he was now giving the blank screen, Sherlock deduced that John was making some attempt at a chronicle.

Sherlock viewed this as a waste of time, particularly knowing from whence came John’s initial motivation for the project. During a long afternoon in St. Bart’s labs waiting for Sherlock to complete some chemical analysis crucial to a case, John had borrowed a pulp novel to help him to pass the time. The lurid romance purporting to be a true-life mystery had engrossed John for hours. Sherlock lectured Molly Hooper on her corrupting influence and inferior literary tastes, Molly left the lab crying, and John immediately undertook a mission to borrow or buy more of the nasty things. He would have read them non-stop had Sherlock not pointed out how much time they were taking away from his medical studies.

Sherlock flicked his gaze once more in John’s direction to find that John was now staring at him. He quickly averted his eyes, but John had seen the break in his concentration and pounced.

‘Sherlock.’

‘Busy.’ Sherlock made a show of placing a new slide on the microscope stage.

‘If you were going to write up one of your cases―’

‘I wouldn’t.’

‘OK, but if you were―’

‘I’m not.’

‘―what one would you do first?’

Sherlock sighed deeply. ‘John, you know how I hate to repeat myself. Why do you want to have this conversation again?’ he asked, throwing up his hands.

‘We haven’t had it yet. You keep avoiding it.’ John stood and moved to lean against the kitchen doorway. ‘Just tell me―which is your greatest case? Or your favourite one? What’s one that really shows off your abilities the best?’

‘They all show off my abilities. I don’t take the simple or mundane cases that just anyone could solve’

‘But some of them are more interesting.’

Sherlock got up from the table with a groan, pushing past John on his way to the front window.

‘What about that kidnapping case three weeks ago’, John continued. ‘Derry Reid, the little girl from out near Epping Forest? You found her just by knowing what kind of cereal she liked for breakfast. Oh!’ he exclaimed. ‘And the villain’s already got a great nickname: The Wolf!’

‘Villain? Would you listen to yourself? Ulric Faolan, your “Wolf”, wasn’t a villain; he was a child sex trafficker.’

‘What about child sex trafficking isn’t villainous?’ John asked incredulously.

‘Criminal, John. He was a criminal. Villains… villains are for stories’, he declared in exasperation.

‘Well, I’m writing a story. And every story needs a good villain.’ Sherlock groaned again. ‘And a good hero.’ Sherlock could hear the smile in the man’s voice.

‘No.’ Sherlock turned on John. ‘Heroes don’t exist, John, and if they did, I wouldn’t be one of them.’

‘Derry Reid thought you were a hero.’

‘A child.’

‘And Sergeant Hopkins.’

Sherlock recalled the young police officer that had served as his liaison during the case. ‘A mental child’, he pronounced.

‘Well, there are some other people, not children, that think you’re a hero’, John said defensively.

‘Don’t.’

John scowled at the terse command and was quiet several moments, then sat back down at the computer.

‘Fine. I’ll just pick my own favourite and write it up. Maybe that one at the West London Synagogue. You solved it in under five hours. That will really show people how brilliant you are.’

Sherlock stopped on his progress back to the kitchen. ‘People? What people?’

‘The people that read the story.’

‘Who would read anything that you wrote?’

John frowned and said, ‘People that like detective stories. And detectives’, he added, beginning to pick out the first words on the keyboard.

‘And heroes’, he muttered.

‘Serious students of criminology can visit my website.’

‘And the not-so-serious students?’

‘Wouldn’t understand what I do anyway.’

‘I’ll explain it to them.’

‘Who’s going to explain it to you?’ Sherlock asked, sitting back down at his microscope.

‘You already have― Oi! I understand it. Just because I can’t do it doesn’t mean I can’t understand it or explain it to other people.’ After some indeterminate grumbling, he added, ‘I’ll start with the one about Derry Reid. That one was exciting. It’ll get people interested and wanting to read more.’

‘Do you intend to fictionalize all of my work?’ Sherlock complained.

‘Not all of it… Just the interesting bits. I mean, I wouldn’t bother with the serial killer cabbie case; that was pretty boring.’

‘ _Boring_? That was some of my best work!’ Sherlock insisted.

John turned. ‘So you think I should start with that one? I suppose I could try to make it sound interesting’, he mused, the teasing clear in his voice.

Sherlock closed his mouth against what he would have said next and glared at the back of John’s head. He was already facing the computer again, his grin reflected back at him.

‘If there’s any villain in this story, it’s you’, Sherlock groused. ‘You’re positively devious.’ He abandoned the fight and returned to his research.

Later that week John became aware, just as the sky was beginning to lighten, that Sherlock was making his way quickly up the steps to his room. This was unusual enough that, as Sherlock entered, he saw John flipping his tiny self over the side of his pot and suddenly grow large before him.

‘Ah, good. You’re up’, he said. ‘Get dressed. No time to spare.’

‘What’s going on?’ John asked, gathering his clothes. ‘Is there an emergency?’

‘The case, John’, Sherlock said, already dashing back down the stairs. ‘The case!’

John was downstairs not a moment after Sherlock, who was just stepping into light green overalls.

‘Bring your pot.’

John stopped and looked at it. ‘Out?’

‘Yes, of course. Hurry up.’ Overalls zipped up, he took John by the arm to pull him out the door. John stood his ground and asked, ‘Why?’

‘Because it’s getting late. We’ll barely have time to get you in place.’

‘In place? Where?’ Sherlock huffed a sigh, the thought of John as a parrot flashing through his brain. ‘Why do you want me to bring my pot?’

‘I’ll explain in the cab. Now, John.’ Sherlock got behind him and gave him a push towards the door, but John swung away and crossed the room to set his planter in its usual place. ‘What are you doing?’ Sherlock exclaimed.

‘ _Not_ taking my pot out.’

‘But you’ll need it.’

‘For what?’

‘To hide in.’

‘Hide in?’ John raised his arms to quell whatever Sherlock was going to huff out next. ‘Just explain.’

‘We’re going to Ms Siddons’ office at the Dulwich. I’m overnight cleaning staff; you’re a potted plant. I leave you in the office, you listen to everything that’s said, I reclaim you at the earliest opportunity, and we substantially reduce the list of suspects in this string of art thefts.’

‘And you’re just going to leave me there alone, where anyone could move me about or—“pick” me? Sounds dangerous.’

Sherlock tilted his head and smirked. ‘Could be.’

John considered a moment, then picked up his pot and grinned. ‘Let’s go.’

Not only were they able to substantially narrow the list of suspects—to one, Ms Siddons herself—but John provided the location of the hidden safe containing enough documents to ensure a conviction. As a side benefit, they were also able to establish why the preceding two detectives hired by the museum had failed: both had been drugged via Siddons’ home baking.

‘But why would she hire you to discover the thief if she was the thief?’ John asked, hanging his jacket by the door.

‘To deflect suspicion’, Sherlock responded as he settled into his chair. ‘She _was_ one of only five persons that had access to all of the stolen works.’

‘So she hired detectives, then drugged them—to make sure they failed’, John realized.

‘Precisely. And both of the previous “detectives”’, Sherlock said scornfully, ‘were too embarrassed when they realized that they’d fallen asleep on the job—and too stupid to realize they’d been drugged—so they lied, reported seeing nothing despite being on the alert all night. Idiots.’

‘But she didn’t manage to drug you’, John smiled. In truth, it was only Sherlock’s habit of not eating while on a case that had saved him from being drugged by the apple tarts Ms Siddons left for him, but it was a victory for him anyway.

‘And she couldn’t drug you. Didn’t even know you were there.’ Sherlock was riding the high he always enjoyed at a case’s successful conclusion. His theory that Siddons herself was the thief had been proven correct; a few quick deductions and some leg work shared with the police had led to the recovery of six of the eight stolen paintings; he had exposed the ethically-lacking previous investigators; and John had shown himself fully capable of helping in this delightful new fashion. All that remained now was to eat a hearty dinner and spend a quiet evening in with John.

‘Well, it was all pretty amazing. I still don’t know how you knew it was her just from her nail polish, though. You’ll have to explain that to me before I write up the account.’

Sherlock grimaced at John’s efforts to chronicle his cases, but offered, ‘I’ll explain it over dinner’, and he reached to pull out his phone.

‘Mm. No’, John said, rousing himself from leaning in the doorway, still clutching his pot. ‘I think I’m going to head up now. I’m a little tired.’

‘It’s not even eight yet’, Sherlock protested.

‘Pretty full day, though.’

‘True’, Sherlock acknowledged, putting a critical eye to assessing John. _He does look tired. Flowers probably aren’t meant to run much._ ‘Tomorrow then. Good night.’

‘Night.’

Interrupted only by his take-away arriving, Sherlock sat down and put together his own few notes on the case, mostly a record of the key players. He liked to keep an inventory of criminal personalities, even the ones heading for prison as Ms. Siddons was—never knew when someone was going to come back on the scene. He also stored a memento of the case: one of her earrings, a dazzling display of tiny rubies in the form of a phoenix, that had been knocked off during the struggle to detain her for a police arrest. Work completed, he laid on the sofa reflecting on how satisfying life had been recently, before drifting off to sleep.


	19. An Incident

‘Greg. Come on in.’ John held the door wide and gestured Lestrade in, smiling a sincere welcome. John liked Greg; he was pleasant and warm and friendly, when not too harried by his work or riled by Sherlock’s jibes. The DI stepped through the door and headed up the staircase. As he always did now, since the night of the serial killer cabbie, Lestrade gave John a wide berth. John felt some guilt about this. He knew Sherlock’s ‘revelation’ of him being a POW (which wasn’t in his official record, making John nervous about the discrepancy) played on sympathies he didn’t deserve. It had also caused Lestrade to several times stop abruptly and look worriedly at John when speaking of some gruesome case. Still, the lie protected him, and he left his friend deceived.

Lestrade took up station before the sofa, considering the two dozen or so notes and photos Sherlock had tacked there. His eyes flicked tiredly over the images as he tried to make sense of them. The expression on his face made it clear he was failing in the attempt. Finally, he looked questioningly to John, standing silently several paces away.

‘No idea’, John admitted. ‘He got as far as saying that the building hadn’t been a random target, yelled “Danika”, and ran out. Said you should wait for him, though’, he assured.

Lestrade looked again to the wall—he recognized most of the faces and locations from the case, but there were some unknowns—shrugged, and turned to slump onto the sofa.

‘Nothing to do but wait then, I guess.’

‘Can I get you some tea? Coffee?’

Lestrade perked up. ‘Tea, if you don’t mind. Make a good change from the sorry excuse for coffee I’ve been drinking the last two days.’

John smiled and headed into the kitchen.

‘Maybe a sandwich, too? If you couldn’t get away long enough for a decent cup of coffee, I can’t imagine you found time for an actual meal.’

‘Don’t go to any trouble, please.’

‘No trouble’, John said, reappearing immediately with a sandwich. ‘I tried to get Sherlock to eat a couple hours ago, but…’

Lestrade chuckled. ‘I don’t know how he survives living the way he does. Thin as a rail, no reserves to call on, but he can go longer without food than anyone I know. Thanks’, he added emphatically, accepting the plate.

As John returned to the kitchen, Lestrade continued. ‘He’s looking better lately than he had been, though. Since you moved in, that is. An extra couple of pounds on him. He seems to be doing better all around. Nice flat—I wondered a bit when he moved in. Not that—’

Lestrade was silenced by a crash from the kitchen.

‘John?’ Lestrade was on his feet and moving as quick as the word.

John looked at the shards of glass covering the floor, steaming water already starting to drift toward the low spot in front of the stove, then at the hand that had suddenly given out.

‘What happened?’ Lestrade asked from the doorway.

_What indeed?_ John wondered. Between the sink and the countertop, his hand had just stopped holding, strength and grip disappearing. It looked fine, he could move the fingers now, but for a moment…

‘Nothing. It’s nothing. Just… slipped out of my hand’, he said as Lestrade took a cautious step toward the mess.

‘Need any help?’ he offered. ‘You didn’t burn yourself or get cut or anything?’

‘Um. No. I’m OK. It’s fine. I’ll clean it up.’ John smiled up at him. ‘You go ahead and eat. Sherlock should be back soon, and you’ll want to have that sandwich in you if he’s going to run you across London chasing mad arsonists yet tonight.’

Lestrade lingered a moment before backing away and returning silently to the sofa and the sandwich. In no time, John had set the kitchen to rights and joined Greg in quiet conversation.

Sherlock appeared like a storm cloud, thundering up the stairs and gusting into the sitting room. He threw a small picture onto the coffee table, growling, ‘The second victim, Inspector. Her name was Danika. She was seven’, as he crossed to the fireplace.

Lestrade took up the pencilled drawing and looked sadly on the face of a frail-looking little girl. He had known that the remains found in the burned-out factory were a child’s and had hoped that her identity could be discovered. Having a face to put to the remains was a relief, but a painful one. He sighed deeply and said, ‘I’ll check the missing persons reports, find her parents—’

‘She won’t have been reported missing; the homeless seldom are. As to her parents, she never knew her mother and her _father_ ’—he spit out the word as he yanked a knife from the mantelpiece—‘is your arsonist.’ On the word, the knife flew over John and Lestrade’s heads to sink into a mug shot pinned to the wall above them. ‘I’ve already informed her grandmother’, Sherlock added quietly, throwing himself into his chair.

Lestrade was still a moment, waiting to see if another lightning bolt would come from the far side of the room. When it seemed none would, he rose and looked at the photo the knife had pierced. ‘Joe Egan. I’ve wanted this one for a while. I’ll need everything you’ve got’, he said, turning to Sherlock. ‘He’s managed to avoid prison twice already; I don’t want to see him slip through a third time.’

‘You’ll have everything you need for a conviction, I assure you.’ Sherlock related all he had discovered and how he had determined the girl’s identity. Said where the confused forensics team should look to find the source of the fire—in a factory full of flammable chemicals, the point of origin was hard to locate. Told in a voice like flint where Lestrade’s team could find Egan holed up, providing ‘other interested parties had not found him first.’ At that, Lestrade hurried to set the arrest in motion and left with Sherlock’s promise of a full statement on his desk by the time he got to work the next morning.

The door had no more than closed behind the detective than John was setting a bowl filled with lentil stew at Sherlock’s elbow and settling himself in his chair opposite.

‘The grandmother… one of your Homeless Network?’

Sherlock shrugged as if uninterested. ‘Gave me a bit of information from time to time.’

‘And you knew the little girl, too? Danika?’

Sherlock thrust himself up from the chair and paced small, frustrated circles before the fireplace. ‘He knew she was in there, John. I can’t prove that part, but I know it. He had to have known! Every time she got a glimpse of him she tried to follow him, just wanted to know who her father was, wanted to be with him. He would have passed near Stella’s van on his way to the factory. Danika would have seen him, followed him, right into the place. She probably watched him disarm the fire suppression system. And once he’d started the fire, ran out… If she couldn’t keep up, he wouldn’t have stopped to help her. Oh no, not when he knew the security guard was due back around any second.’ He stilled, then finished quietly, ‘He left her there to die, John. I know it.’

John had no idea what to say and so only rose to stand beside Sherlock, hoping that presence was as good as consolation. After some moments, his face once again fixed as a dispassionate shield, Sherlock roused himself enough to finally remove the long coat he still wore and lean over to try a spoonful of the soup. It went down like paste. He pushed it aside and said, ‘Perhaps just some tea.’

‘Sure thing’, John said, turning, then stopping with a frown. ‘Erm, kettle’s broken.’

‘What’s wrong with it? Bring it here; perhaps I can fix it.’

‘No, I don’t think so.’ At Sherlock’s raised eyebrows, he added, ‘It shattered pretty thoroughly when it hit the floor. Slipped out of my hand. Sorry.’

‘Something wrong with your hand?’ Sherlock asked, noticing, as John had not, how he flexed his left hand as he spoke.

‘No’, John said quickly. ‘Nothing wrong. Just slipped. I’ll go see if I can borrow something from Mrs Hudson’, he added, hastening from the room. Sherlock remained still, staring at John’s retreating form with that fiercely probing expression he typically wore at crime scenes.


	20. The End

John sat in his chair, body curled into an afghan, slippered toes barely peeking out.

‘Sherlock?’

‘Mm’, came the distracted response.

‘How much colder does it get in London?’

‘Average temperature at this time of year is 16°C. Gets down to an average of 7° in the coldest months, with record lows somewhere around 17 below, I believe.’ He continued typing on his laptop.

‘Oh.’ John thought a moment. ‘What was the temperature this summer?’

‘Highs averaged about 24°, I should say. Little warmer than usual.’

‘Ah. … So, it’s going to be rather colder.’ John looked questioningly at Sherlock.

Sherlock gave a short exasperated sigh. ‘John, if you’re cold, put on a jumper, turn on the fireplace.’ He typed a little more forcefully, irritation dominating his face. ‘Winter’s just another season. You wear an extra layer until it gets warm again.’

‘The trees…’ John continued after a moment. ‘The leaves are just starting to turn colour. They’ll be falling soon, I know that.’ John drew his hands from under the blanket until they were just visible and considered them, then looked at his plant on the window sill. He got up and went to examine it, afghan trailing out behind him. ‘Does it look okay to you?’ he asked, turning to Sherlock.

Eyes still on his computer, Sherlock said, ‘I’m sure you’re the better judge of that. It is you, after all.’

‘That’s what I was worried about’, John said quietly, regarding the plant again.

Sherlock’s head shot up. He finally saw where John’s questions were leading, saw the man’s cold and concern, thought of the recent bouts of fatigue and weakness— _Stupid!_ —and suddenly asked what he should have thought to ask months ago. ‘John! Are you an annual or a perennial?’

John turned to face Sherlock full-on. ‘I don’t know.’

An hour later they were stepping from a cab in front of Greta Voigt’s building. Sherlock looked to the rooftop, saw hints of red-gold leaves at the edge, and regained confidence that she still lived here. Finding that her phone was out of service had been disquieting. Regret at not having contacted her earlier about John clawed at him.

They hustled up the two flights to her door, John close on Sherlock’s heels, and knocked. No answer. Knocked again. Silence.

‘Ms Voigt? Ms Voigt, are you there? It’s Sherlock Holmes. I need to speak with you.’

A sound above caught their attention and Sherlock started up the next flight of stairs toward the roof. He’d only reached the landing half way up when a face appeared over the railing. Sherlock sighed his relief.

‘Mr Holmes?’ The woman began her descent. ‘Oh, how nice to see you again. I hope you’ve come for more honey. This year’s batch is excellent.’ She had just joined him on the landing and noticed John in front of her door, was about to call a greeting to him, when Sherlock reached out and grabbed her shoulders. ‘Ms Voigt, I need to know—’

‘Mr Holmes!’ she gasped. ‘What—?’ She looked up into Sherlock’s face, trying to read his intentions, confused and alarmed and pulling against his grasp. ‘Mr Holmes, please, I—’

Sherlock released her but stood planted before her. Her glance skittered between him and John and the stairs she’d come down.

‘Ms Voigt.’ Sherlock set his voice and face into something polite, open, and, he hoped, calm. ‘I’m sorry; I didn’t mean to startle you. But I need to know something and it’s quite important.’ He forced his speech to a slower cadence.

‘…yes?’ She had stepped back when he let go and was smoothing down her jacket sleeves where he’d held her. ‘Is this about Robert?’

‘Who?’ Her nephew, the case, _no!_ ‘No, not that. The seed, Ms Voigt, the one you gave me, to start my garden; do you remember?’

‘Oh, yes.’ Her face warmed; she was back in familiar territory now.

‘You didn’t tell me what sort of seed it was. I planted it and it grew, but I need to know: is the plant an annual or a perennial?’

She blinked at him, a shadow of wonder on her face.

‘Well, which is it? Tell me! Is it—’ He forced the horrid words from his mouth. ‘Will it die off this winter?’

Greta Voigt looked down the stairs at John—his whole body tensed, fists balled at his sides, as he waited for her words—then looked back to meet Sherlock’s piercing gaze.

‘Oh, Mr Holmes.’ She stepped forward and placed a hand on his elbow. ‘Perhaps you gentlemen would care for some tea?’

As she busied herself in the kitchen, John settled himself on a plump armchair, still nestled into his jacket. Sherlock kept to his feet, alternately pacing and stopping to cast a critical eye over John.

‘Please understand, Mr Holmes—I honestly didn’t know if it would work for you.’ She emerged with a tray and looked between Sherlock and John. ‘I hoped, of course—one always hopes. And you had done such a great favour for me, one that deserved far more reward than I had it in my power to give. Unless the seed actually grew for you.’ She set down the tray and began to pour. ‘They don’t always—none that I’ve ever given has, actually. It takes a special combination of events to make magic, as I’m sure you know.’

‘Magic?’ Sherlock challenged her. ‘You’re calling John magic?’

Ms Voigt looked surprised. ‘Well’, she responded, ‘what would you call him?’

Sherlock opened his mouth to speak before he realized that he didn’t know what to say. Anything that came to mind sounded absurd, just as absurd as the term magic. John was a flower-person. John was a sentient plant. No, John was a new form of life, one that broke the boundaries between plant and animal, could cross back and forth between that boundary at will. Except that he couldn’t, not really. Even in human form— _humanoid form?_ —John was still a plant. A very special plant that could polymorph into other shapes, take on many of the characteristics of humans, learn, talk, walk, laugh, make tea, reason. Everything that plants could never do. Unless, of course, they were…

‘Magic?’ Sherlock spoke quietly.

‘When I never heard from you again’, she resumed, ‘I assumed it hadn’t grown. Or more likely you hadn’t planted it yet.’

‘You still haven’t answered my question.’

‘Haven’t I?’ She looked as if she would console him with words or touch if he came near enough, but Sherlock did not want consolation—he wanted a living, fully functioning John.

‘Impossible’, Sherlock insisted. ‘He can’t just… That can’t be right. If John is magic, like something out of a fairy tale, then shouldn’t there be a happy ending?’

‘Not all fairy tales end happily. And stories of creatures like John—I could tell you a dozen right now, but you only want to know their endings.’ She looked out the window at gathering clouds and swirling leaves. ‘And they all end with the chill of winter. I’m sorry—’

‘Don’t tell me you’re sorry!’ Sherlock barked at her, stopping mid-stride. ‘Do something! Tell me what I can do!’ He started circling the room again. ‘I’ve developed a reliable food for him, given him a name, an identity, he’s kept himself watered, turned his pot, got enough sun, but now—’ He whirled on Ms Voigt. ‘Has it all been for nothing? Is it really going to end just because the temperature’s ticked down a few degrees?’ He turned his back on them both. ‘It can’t. I won’t let it’, he concluded fiercely.

Ms Voigt looked helplessly to John, who could barely raise his eyes from his hands clasped in his lap.

‘Sorry, Ma’am. He’s got a bit of a temper sometimes.’

She reached to settle a hand over his. ‘And what about you, John?’ she asked gently. ‘You must be angry, too.’

John shrugged. ‘If it’s what happens. If it’s how things are. Don’t know how I could change anything.’ He smiled sadly and looked around the room. ‘Would have been nice to stay, though. I like it here.’

‘You _will_ stay, John’, Sherlock insisted, back to pacing. ‘There is a way. I just have to figure it out.’

Greta Voigt drew a quick, deep breath and sat firmly upright. ‘There might be… Perhaps’, she cautioned as both men fixed on her instantly. ‘Perhaps there is one story that has a different ending.

‘Understand, gentlemen’, she explained as she rose and began shuffling through papers on her desk, ‘I’m not sure if it’s really— That is, I’ve sometimes suspected.’ The corners of her mouth began to turn up as she drew one paper from all the others. ‘And considering the source—’

‘What are you talking about?’ Sherlock demanded. ‘Get to the point.’

‘Those items you retrieved for me’, she explained, ignoring his rudeness. ‘The ones Robert had taken. I was mostly concerned with a particular book, but there were other papers, letters some of them. And this letter.’ She held up a single sheet and Sherlock was immediately at her side peering at it.

‘My great-aunt wrote this letter decades ago. I inherited most of her possessions; all of these papers, books, other things.’ She looked up at Sherlock. ‘And a handful of seeds, one of which I gave to you.’ The men stared as she continued. ‘She wrote often to her sister, my grandmother. There are some earlier letters that make me think—well, I won’t bore you with all of it, but she mentions planting a seed—peculiar to mention one seed like that—and shortly after she starts telling of a young man, quite young, that was staying with her and she’d begun to look on him as something of a son. She never had children of her own. And in this letter—it’s from October, you see—here, she mentions him again:

_You know how I have worried about the coming winter and what it would mean for my poor darling Matthew. Your last letter convinced me that I had to tell him what would happen, try to make him understand. I sat with him two nights ago and told him and I tell you I had never shed so many tears in my life. But he was brave and strong and when I was done he laid his hand on mine and said that it didn’t matter to him that he would pass, but he felt sorry that I wouldn’t have his help any more. He told me that he would love me even after he was gone. It was then that I realized it—his hand was warm! My dear, I cried even more tears then knowing that he would stay. That he will I am sure; there is simply no doubting the man he has become. My own dear son._

Greta smiled at them. ‘I knew Matthew. He was a good man.’

Sherlock snatched the missive from her hand and scanned it quickly. ‘But it doesn’t say how! It just says that he lived, became human apparently, but she doesn’t say what she did. Where are the rest of her letters? There has to be something.’ He had moved to attack the stack of papers on her desk.

‘It’s right there—don’t you see?’

Sherlock looked furious and John looked confused. She took back the letter. ‘Look at what she says: “He told me that he would love me even after he was gone.” Then she noticed his hand became warm. That has to be when it happened. When he said he loved her.’ She smiled softly, fingers smoothing over the words.

‘Love? He felt love and he lived on because of it? What rubbish.’ Sherlock spun around and resumed his pacing once again. ‘Trite fairy tale conventions. I think we’re going to need something more than that to go on.’

Greta cast a puzzled glance at Sherlock, then looked to John. After a moment, she asked, ‘Well, John, what do you think?’

John looked surprised by the question. ‘I don’t know. Sounds…nice.’

She smiled warmly at him. ‘Love often is. Is there anyone or anything that you might love, John?’ Sherlock froze at the far side of the room and stared at his friend.

‘I don’t know. It’s one of the things I haven’t figured out yet. Love.’ At Greta’s questioning look, he continued. ‘I’ve read about it. Sherlock says it’s a potent motivator and the cause of a lot of crime.’ The detective shifted at his name but never took his eyes off John. ‘But I don’t think I quite understand it.’

‘You wouldn’t be alone in that. People have been trying to figure it out since there have been people.’ She thought several moments while Sherlock resumed pacing, sometimes muttering to himself. ‘I think, really, love isn’t something you figure out; it’s something you just do.’

‘Do you love?’

‘Oh, I do. I love my garden and my bees. I love the honey they give me and I love giving it away. It makes people happy to get a present, especially something like that. And I’ve loved people, too, of course. My parents, some friends. One particular friend most of all.’ She looked wistfully to the photo of a man hung on the wall. ‘He was more than a friend, of course. I would have married him, but—he’s gone now.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘At least I had a chance to love him before he passed. And he loved me, too.’

‘What was it like?’ John asked earnestly. If it could help him to stay, he wanted to understand it.

‘There are hardly words to describe it. When he was happy, I was happy. When he hurt, I hurt. When he was with me, I had everything. We wanted to get married so we could always be together; that’s something you want when you’re in love. And you want to do things, good things, for the person you love. To make them happy. Oh, the things that man did to make me happy!’ she grinned. ‘He once took the train all the way to Bristol—we lived near Wroxham—just to buy me a _Bellis sylvestris_ for my garden. Couldn’t get one anywhere closer. And I did every little thing I could to make him smile: baked his favourite cake, wore his favourite colour. I even pretended to be interested in cricket!’ she laughed, then stilled, looking sombre.

‘But sometimes it’s not about making them happy; sometimes the best you can do is keep them from suffering.’ Her face pinched in pain. ‘My—my dear’, she looked again to the photo, ‘he was hurt, very badly.’ She swallowed, continued quietly. ‘He was hit by a car. They got him to hospital. He was in such pain… it hurt so to see it. I was so afraid he was going to die. I kept thinking of all the days ahead of me and what they would be like without him and it just seemed unbearable. I couldn’t face the thought of living without him.’ John stood and helped her to the armchair he’d been in, watching as she worked shallow breaths into deeper ones.

‘There were surgeries and blood transfusions and medicines, everything the doctors could think to do, but all of that couldn’t save him. He died.’ She sighed deeply, shakily. ‘And I was relieved. Because in the end it didn’t matter how much it hurt me to be without him; watching him suffer, knowing how much pain he was in—that was all so much worse. It was better for me to be in pain than for him to be.’ She looked up at John, blinking away tears that would never cease to be shed. ‘That’s about the best description of love I can give you, I’m afraid.’

‘Sounds…not always pleasant, actually’, John said.

Greta smiled sadly. ‘I look at it this way, John. There’s only so much pain and suffering a person can take before they give up. But there’s no limit to love or the joys love can bring. A person can always handle more of those.’ Her smile turned brighter.

‘So, is there anyone you love? Anything you can’t live without?’

John’s face screwed up in earnest thought. He looked around as if trying to find something to prompt him to love or a recollection of it. Finally his gaze settled on Sherlock who had paused again in his course about the room to stare fixedly at John.

‘No’, he said, turning back to Ms Voigt. ‘Not that I can think of. Well—sunlight. And water.’

‘Those are necessities’, she said gently. ‘I’m talking about things you want, not just need.’

‘Sunlight in the park?’ John tried after a moment. ‘I can get sunlight lots of places, but it’s best in the park. The way it comes down in patterns through the leaves of the trees. It looks and feels really great. Beautiful.’

‘Great.’ Sherlock’s voice after his long silence was startling. ‘You smile and say you feel great; frown in displeasure at something gone wrong; admire the beautiful, the brilliant; show disgust at the grotesque.

‘But never love’, he continued, striding toward them, stopping when he stood towering over John. ‘You’ve never once spoken of love in all these months—nor of hate’, he realized. ‘So many other emotions, written all over your face, but never once love.’ His own face echoed the frantic workings of his mind. ‘Love is a purely human emotion. Nothing else experiences it. You can’t become human without it and you can’t feel it unless you’re human.

‘You can’t feel love, John’, he pronounced. ‘You simply don’t have it in you.’

John blinked up at him. ‘Oh’, he said, looking down and shuffling. ‘I guess I won’t be able to stay then. Sorry.’

Greta reached up and turned John’s face to hers. ‘You don’t know that for certain. Maybe you just haven’t found what you love yet. There’s still time—something could happen.’

John opened his mouth to speak, but Sherlock broke over him. ‘There isn’t time! John’s already growing weak, slowing down. He’s not going to last much longer.’

Greta gasped. ‘Mr Holmes!’

‘It’s the truth’, he said roughly. ‘He’s had months. He has only weeks left, if that. He’s been all over London—if a man can’t find something to love in London in six month’s time, apparently he’s not a man. Nor will he ever be one.’

Greta continued to speak with John of love, explaining, reminiscing, suggesting, while Sherlock scoured all of the letters that referenced Matthew and the seed Greta’s great-aunt had planted. He scanned through two notebooks she’d left, as well, but nowhere did he find anything to replace the only, impossible solution they’d already found. At last, he asked for and was granted two of the remaining seeds to examine—Greta consoled herself for their loss by remembering that others had been planted and never grown. He took these and John and headed home, tucked silent and unmoving into the corner of a cab.


	21. Resolve

The sofa was the most comfortable furniture in the room, and it was rare to get to sit there at all, let alone have it all to himself. Always the older boys laid claim to it, kept the younger away, usually with a glare but sometimes with a sharp kick or a yank on a jacket collar. That was the only way they could remove him the last time he’d sat here, three boys hanging him by his collar until he’d started to see the common room slipping down a tunnel of encroaching black and could no longer grip the cushion beneath him. When the boys returned from class today, though, they wouldn’t even try to move him, not when it was already spreading like fire throughout the forms that a boy’s father had died, that it was Sherlock Holmes’s father, and that this made him an orphan. That he’d had no mother on arriving here had not been terribly unusual—what else did you do with the child the divorce hadn’t left you with, the child you’d never wanted anyway, when his mother up and died and your new wife wanted nothing to do with him either? You paid for a good education and let him loose in the world and hoped he wouldn’t sully the good name you’d given him. Sherlock hadn’t had a chance to get started on that last bit and now his father, too, had died, escaping whatever trials Sherlock might have inflicted upon him by having—justly, Sherlock knew—a bad heart. The door clicked open and Sherlock turned, ready to see Mycroft come to take him away but instead he saw John just coming in with his pot.

‘What are you doing up?’

‘It’s morning.’ As John moved to cross the room, Sherlock twisted, placed his feet on the floor, and stood in his path.

‘You should be resting.’

‘I rested all night; now I’m up. Is that from this morning?’ he asked, glancing to the nearly empty cup on the table. ‘Do you want another?’ He stepped around Sherlock, moving again toward the windows.

‘You’re weak, John’, Sherlock said, making no other attempt to block him. ‘You should rest.’

John stopped, looked at his pot, then back to Sherlock, jaw set. ‘I feel fine. I’ll rest when I don’t. I’m not dead yet’, he concluded, setting the pot firmly on the ledge. ‘Do you want tea or not?’

Sherlock looked away. ‘No, made my own this morning. I didn’t think you’d be up.’

John started to speak, but stopped, not knowing what to say. Neither, apparently, did Sherlock. The two had arrived home the previous evening to the same silence that had accompanied them in the cab. Neither had said much at all, or even done much. Sherlock had declined John’s offer of supper. John had turned on the TV for a few moments, but every program rang too loud, looked too garish, felt too lively. Too alive. He’d finally bid Sherlock an early good night, leaving him staring out the window at the cold brick of the building opposite.

In the kitchen, John now put away the honey jar Sherlock had left out and began getting out food for breakfast.

‘Don’t bother’, Sherlock said from the doorway.

John looked to the sink, where there were no dirty dishes but a teaspoon. ‘You’ve not eaten since lunch yesterday.’

‘Not hungry’, he replied, starting to turn away.

John resumed his breakfast preparations. ‘You’ve got to eat. We can’t both—’

They both stopped altogether and there was a silence of too many long seconds, then John said again, ‘You’ve got to eat’, and set about cooking the food.

Sherlock watched him a moment more before suddenly swirling around and opening his computer.

‘It’s just another puzzle, John. I can figure it out. I will.’

It was over a week before Sherlock took another case. It was the day before that John had discovered he’d disconnected the doorbell and turned off his phone. John found the phone—with nearly thirty texts—while trying to fight back against some of the mess that Sherlock had created in the flat.

Sherlock had brought in a second computer, something borrowed (John hoped that was the right word) from St. Bart’s ‘for calculations’. A box of soil samples had erupted on one end of the kitchen table. The other end was crammed with more John Food components and test formulations. Stacks of books on topics ranging from horticulture and climatology to fairy tales and magic lay in piles everywhere there wasn’t something else. Amid it all, Sherlock paced and whirled, mumbling, exclaiming, testing, reading, working on solving this puzzle to the exclusion of everything else, including, as usual, getting sufficient food and rest.

‘I already have a case’, Sherlock responded when John asked why he was ignoring all of the inquiries he’d had. ‘When I’ve finished it, I’ll move on to the next one.’

John, standing by the table where he’d just laid Sherlock’s phone, studied the floor for a moment.

‘Sherlock, I’m not a case. I’m not paying you to figure out… anything.’

‘Quite alright, John’, he said, rising and pushing past the man on his way to a stack of books in the sitting room. ‘You know I prefer forms of currency other than cash.’

‘Sherlock, you have to work. On real, paying cases.’

‘Do I?’ Sherlock snapped. ‘I was under the impression that my business manager had the finances well in hand these days.’

‘Your business manager’s telling you to work’, John snapped back.

‘Maybe it’s time I got a new business manager.’

Sherlock took the ensuing silence as a victory and end to the discussion until John said quietly, ‘You’ll have to soon enough.’ Realizing what he’d said, Sherlock whirled to see John reaching for his jacket on the way to the door.

‘Where are you going?’

‘Out. I need some sun.’ The slamming of the door jarred from Sherlock anything he might have said against that.

Sherlock was furious for the space of five sharp breaths. Then he pushed his anger aside, forced it into that place in him where he hid foolish emotional responses, found the book he’d sought, and got back to work.

When John arrived home four hours later, he bore several carrier bags with him. Sherlock sniffed the air and moved softly toward the kitchen where John had started to unload pantry staples.

‘Rogan josh?’ he inquired cautiously.

‘Yeah, that place on Paddington you said had the best.’

Sherlock fussed about with a few beakers at the end of the table. John finished his unpacking, then moved to plate the food.

‘No room in here’, he said, casting an eye over the clutter on the kitchen table. ‘Clear a space on the desk?’

Sherlock hesitated long enough to make it look like he wasn’t snapping to do John’s bidding, but there was space for plate and glass when John arrived with the food. After John had settled into his chair, Sherlock waited a moment more.

‘That’s it?’ he asked.

‘Other half is in the fridge; you never eat it all. Did you want it all? Or more naan?’ John could only hope.

‘No, I—’ Sherlock shrugged and began to eat, obviously savouring the flavourful dish. He had thought that John would say something, perhaps apologise for leaving like that, or even try to lead Sherlock into an apology for his unthinking remark. He acknowledged to himself that it was unthinking, poorly timed—but surely John knew that and he needn’t mention it. But John said nothing, only sat in his chair trying to look like he was reading a book but really casting quick, nervous glances at Sherlock.

Sherlock recalled their previous disagreement, when John had foolishly revealed himself to those kidnappers. Sherlock had been angry, then, and shouted at John. There had been other occasions on which John had witnessed his temper, too. _Does John think my temper could evidence itself in a physical fashion? Is he—_

‘Something wrong with the food?’ John asked. Sherlock realized he’d stopped eating, had folded his hands in front of him as he began to think.

‘It’s fine.’

‘I told them to make it really spicy the way you like.’

‘It’s spicy’, Sherlock granted, taking another bite.

‘Good’, John said, going back to not reading.

Sherlock decided not to concern himself with John’s impressions of his anger. There were more important matters to occupy him. One matter, anyway: keeping John alive. He began a mental review of solutions he’d considered: installing a terrarium, John Food enhancements, moving to Australia, various methods of putting John into stasis over winter, grafts from cold hardy plants, going to Australia— _No, I already_ _—_ _. Didn’t I?_ In truth, Sherlock could feel the weight of the problem dragging him down, exhausting him, leaving him addled and sluggish and— _Oh_.

‘John?’ But John was already beside him, cool hands supporting him when he could support himself no longer, while someone whispered from far away that everything would be fine.

The next sound Sherlock heard was a random assortment of thuds and clanks that eventually resolved itself into John putting away dishes in the kitchen. Sherlock was still in the sitting room, on the sofa now, tucked snugly under a blanket. He took the time until John was finished to get his brain fully in order, waiting until John had come to check on him to open his eyes and speak.

‘You drugged me.’

‘I sedated you’, John replied gently. ‘How do you feel?’

‘You _drugged_ me.’

‘I sedated you— _because_ ’, he added before Sherlock could interject, ‘you needed to get some rest.’

‘You illicitly slipped a controlled substance into my food and practically force-fed me, insuring that I would be rendered unconscious for—fourteen hours?!’ he exclaimed, glancing at John’s watch ‘—completely betraying my trust, not to mention breaking how many laws?’

‘Alright, I drugged you.’

Sherlock threw back the blanket and sat up. ‘What was it? Where did you even get it?’

‘Chemist’s down the way.’ At Sherlock’s surprised look, he added, ‘I am a doctor. I can write prescriptions, you know.’

Sherlock looked a combination of stunned, impressed, and just a bit wary.

‘I can see you have a strong, natural turn for this sort of thing.’

‘Plus, you taught me everything I know.’

Sherlock smiled, looking pleased. ‘I did, didn’t I?’ But his smile left when he said, ‘Just don’t do it again. Poisoning my food is no way to increase my appetite.’ He reached to pull the borrowed laptop to him.

‘I didn’t poison you.’ John sat on the coffee table beside the computer and placed his hand on its lid, holding it closed and away from Sherlock.

‘Thank you, John, I’m feeling quite refreshed from my little nap. Time to get back to work.’

‘Exactly. Get dressed. Lestrade’s expecting us at Scotland Yard.’ Sherlock’s face clouded at this. ‘He called a couple hours ago with a double homicide and—’

‘I choose my own cases’, Sherlock declared, standing and striding over the low table to the desk.

‘Sherlock—’

‘What is the _matter_ with you, John? I’m trying to help you. I’m certain I can solve this but I need to keep working. Do you want to die?’ When John’s face did not move from its set expression, Sherlock froze.

‘Do you?’ he asked quietly.

‘Of course not.’ Sherlock exhaled. ‘But I’d rather be alive while I’m alive, working on your cases with you, not just sitting here waiting for you to come up with something to keep me going for a few more days.’ He took a deep breath. ‘Besides, I thought all that mattered to you was the work.’

Sherlock spun away. ‘You’re a mystery, John. You are work.’

John shifted. ‘Right. Fine.’ Silence. ‘I’ll just—’

‘Get us a cab. I’ll be down in five minutes.’ He threw John’s jacket at him as he headed down the hall to his bedroom.

Sherlock did not intend to let John die. He would find a way to keep him alive, would not stop working, at every available moment, on solving this most pressing mystery. But neither, he had decided on hearing that plea, would he deny John the life he had given him while the man still had that life. He went back to taking cases, hoping that the activity wouldn’t exhaust John or speed his deterioration. Hoping that it would keep him healthy and hearten him. Hoping, he eventually had to admit to himself, that it might somehow bring them to something out in there this sprawling metropolis that John could love.


	22. Trials

Three weeks, seven botany professors, twelve museums, four botanical gardens, three football matches, one terrarium, four plant lights, six houses of worship, seven John Food formulations, two cases, and forty-five disastrous minutes of trying to pull in the local pub later, Sherlock and John entered a nursery—one that carried only live, potted flowers and shrubs.

The shop keep— _52-56 years old, spinster, avid reader (probably romance novels), preparing for a holiday in Kent, prone to rheumatic attacks during weather changes_ —smiled when they walked in and gave a cheery, ‘Anything I can help you with, just let me know.’ John returned her smile and began looking around. Sherlock walked straight to her, pulling out his mobile on the way.

‘Have you ever seen a flower like this?’ Sherlock held out the phone, showing her several shots of John in his natural state.

She considered the images as he flicked through them, then lightly took hold of his hand, angling the phone closer.

‘Oh— Well… I don’t think I have. The flower itself looks like something in the Hyacinthoides family’, she said, releasing his hand, ‘but the foliage is more like that of the Violaceae.’ She looked up at him. ‘What is it?’

‘I’m not certain. I’m looking for suggestions on how best to preserve it. Keep it blooming.’

‘How long has it been in bloom?’

‘Since May.’

‘That’s rather productive. Typically a plant, particularly something this size, wouldn’t bloom for more than maybe two or three months. But you might be able to force it this winter’, she continued. ‘Cut it back, put it into—’

‘That’s not an option’ Sherlock stopped her. ‘I want to keep it blooming, keep it alive. I want this blossom’—he struck the image on the phone—‘to continue.’

She looked again at the image. ‘It’s had this flower all that time?’

‘Yes.’

‘Hm. Very unusual. And it’s been the only flower?’

‘Yes. And the seed was the size and shape of a bean and it responds well to standard plant food, prefers slightly acidic soil, has never lost a leaf, and likes full-to-partial sun.’

She looked up at him and grinned. ‘I take it I’m not the first person you’ve asked about it.’

‘No. I’ve tried everywhere: University of London, Kew, Angers. No one knows anything.’

‘And you’re asking me? When the experts didn’t know anything?’

‘I, unlike many, am perfectly happy to work with so-called amateurs, when they are useful.’

‘Oh, well.’ She could have been pleased with his attitude toward amateurs if not for his emphasis on their—and obviously her lack of—usefulness.

‘However, since you can’t help me— John.’ When he turned to collect John, he saw him staring halfway across the shop at a flower near the register in back. ‘John?’

‘Oh, yeah. Sorry.’ John began to move, but Sherlock was already at his side.

‘What is it?’

‘Not sure, but she’s beautiful.’ John turned back to gaze again at the plant.

‘Yes, she is, isn’t she?’ the woman said, joining them.

‘She?’ Sherlock asked.

‘Well, not technically a she—few flowering plants are dioecious’, she informed them. ‘But it has a female name; it’s a Mary variety Streptocarpus. Come have a closer look.’

They all walked to gather around the stand where it sat, Sherlock apart and angled just so, that he might examine John’s response to this _please, let it be life-saving_ plant.

The woman began discussing the thing with John, seemed to be assessing his level of interest in and knowledge of plants, but Sherlock barely heeded their words. His focus was solely on John’s face, his expression, his stance, the tone of his voice when he gestured to the blossom before him. _Is this it?_ He wondered. _Is this what love looks like?_ He tried to summon an image of love, compare it to what he saw, but when he concentrated on the word, on what it must feel like, he got only waves of dark, soft hair, murmured bits of lullabies, tea and toast and rain on window panes, and sad eyes above a ridiculous umbrella-print tie—none of which had anything to do with John, so he turned his attention back to the here and now.

‘How much?’ he asked.

‘£18.20.’

‘We’ll take it.’

‘We will?’ John interjected.

‘Of course we will. You like it.’

‘Yeah, but…’ And then he noticed the look in Sherlock’s eye. He turned away from the confused florist and spoke low. ‘Sherlock, I don’t feel…any different. About her, me. Anything.’

‘You might; give it time’, Sherlock urged. ‘Look, there’s no reason not to buy it. Her’, he corrected, turning back to the florist and reaching for his wallet.

‘Who’s going to take care of it?’ John asked full-voiced.

‘You are, obviously.’

‘And when I’m gone?’

Sherlock looked back at him. John held his gaze for a long beat, his face as calm as the words had been, then walked away. Sherlock took a deep breath, turned, and said again, ‘We’ll take it.’

As she rang up the sale, the woman asked quietly, ‘Cancer, is it?’ When Sherlock looked his displeasure down his nose at her, she added, ‘I’m sorry. None of my business.’

‘No, it’s not.’

‘I just heard him saying—and I thought.’ She hesitated. ‘Well, it’s good to have something to take care of, I suppose. And flowers are good company. I’ve always found them so, anyway’, she added with a shrug and a small smile. Lifting the pot to settle it carefully into a carrier bag, she offered in a rush, ‘Look, if you find you can’t take care of it after, or you just don’t want it round the house, you can bring it back.’

Sherlock took the bag, considered her a moment more, and murmured a reluctant ‘Thank you’, then headed outside to where John waited on the pavement.

That evening, after John had spent a considerable amount of time making sure that their new addition was ‘comfortable’, Sherlock called him to the kitchen and held up a test tube for his inspection. He had filled it with lightly packed dirt and bored a hole through its rubber stopper.

‘It’s already moist and I added some of your food with the water. Climb in.’

John looked uncertain, but he did as Sherlock asked. He was working so hard to find ways to keep John alive, to keep him mobile and with him; John couldn’t not try. So he shrank down, placed one miniature foot into the hole through the stopper, and changed to a flower shape, rooting himself into the soil in the process.

‘Well?’ John didn’t move and Sherlock waited impatiently through the few minutes that it took for John to make his assessment. Finally, the flower moved and morphed, becoming John once again.

‘It feels alright’, John allowed. ‘I guess we can give it a try.’

‘Excellent’, Sherlock said. ‘Now we just need to devise a secure fastener.’

John still felt somewhat queasy about what they were doing. When Sherlock had first explained buttonholes and how they might hide John in plain sight, John had been shocked. ‘You want me to play dead on your lapel?’ he asked.

‘Not at all. I simply want you to look like a typical buttonhole flower while you’re in a vial of enriched soil fastened to my coat.’

John could not see the difference, but he had agreed to give the plan a try. He, too, wanted to find a way to continue helping Sherlock on his cases, although how he could help while stuck to Sherlock in flower form remained to be seen. It wasn’t the best solution—John was still morphed from his natural flower state—but he didn’t expend nearly so much energy this way, they’d found, and he could absorb some nutrients while plant-shaped.

So John took a patch of fabric from an old dark shirt and sewed it to the back of Sherlock’s coat lapel, putting to use the lessons he’d had from Mrs Hudson a few months back when he’d decided to see what could be done about keeping Sherlock’s active wardrobe in better repair. His stitches weren’t neat—good thing he wasn’t supposed to be a surgeon—but they were strong and functional. The slim pocket held the test tube firmly in place, the lapel itself hid the slightly ragged stitches, and the vial’s presence interfered only minimally with Sherlock’s habit of turning up his coat collar.

Their first test of the arrangement came late the next morning. Lestrade called Sherlock seeking help on a questionable death. Lestrade’s instincts told him he had a murder inquiry—indeed, the case had initially been investigated as suspicious, but evidence pointed to it being an accident. Unwilling to let go and running out of time to justify further police effort, the DI called on his consultant.

Sherlock had no more than walked into Lestrade’s office when Donovan stopped in her conversation and exclaimed, ‘What is that?’ Sherlock followed her disbelieving eyes to his lapel.

‘Buttonhole, obviously.’

‘Don’t tell me you’ve got a lady friend?’ she taunted.

‘You think I have a lady friend because I’m wearing a flower on my lapel? Yet another of your trademark and _incorrect_ assumptions that take the place of the logic and reason a true detective would use.’

Stung, Sally tried to sting back. ‘Gentleman friend, then?’

Sherlock looked to the file Lestrade was handing him.

‘I have a carnation, that is all.’

‘Actually, that’s a bachelor’s button’, Lestrade interjected.

‘What?’

‘Your flower. It’s not a carnation; it’s a bachelor’s button.’

‘And what would you know about flowers?’ Sherlock scoffed.

‘I know enough to know the difference between a carnation and a bachelor’s button.’ He shrugged at Sherlock’s look. ‘My gran had a garden. Used to play there when I was a lad.’

Sherlock began spreading the contents of the file over Lestrade’s desk, effectively displacing the detective. Lestrade sighed and motioned Sgt Donovan to follow him out so they could finish their discussion elsewhere. When they returned, Sherlock was smirking over a series of statements and pictures lined up before him.

‘Congratulations, Lestrade; you were right for once. Well, almost’, Sherlock qualified, holding out two of the photos. They were the ones in which John, leaning over and clutching to Sherlock’s lapel, had spotted a crucial bit of evidence. Sherlock had noted it, too, but he was always just a bit pleased when John showed himself to be paying attention. He hadn’t even told John that he’d certainly already noticed the broken half teapot lying in the corner of one photo, the date and time stamp of which proclaimed it to have been taken moments before another in which the teapot stood intact and serving as a planter to some small flowering thing. ‘Narcissus’, John said. ‘Flower-not-John’, Sherlock registered.

Sherlock described the inconsistency, the ease with which the deceased’s wife had undoubtedly reset the time on her camera, and the implications for her lack of honesty in relating the events surrounding her husband’s death. While Lestrade, wearing a satisfied grin, called his Superintendent, Sherlock made a quick exit to get John back home and into his pot.

That evening, Sherlock received a text from Lestrade to thank him for his help on the case, informing him that the wife had already been arrested and made a full confession. Immediately following were two photos of flowers confirming John's lapel-riding form as that of a bachelor’s button.

Not a week had passed when Mrs Hudson was descending the steps from 221B as Sherlock was bursting through the front door. She paused to take in the sight of him: a swirl of blue coat, normally-pale cheeks reddened by the cold, scarf already half off and about to be flung around the newel post. Although the last few months had given her ample opportunity to see Sherlock in his dormant state, it was this version of him that most often came to mind: the frenetic, manic blur of brilliance and sometimes charm that so easily drew a person in, his very presence an anticipation of something amazing about to happen. It was the same energy that had drawn her to her husband, grabbed her up and— _well, that hadn’t turned out so well, had it?_

‘Have you ever entered a building quietly, Sherlock?’

‘Plenty of times’, he stated, flipping his scarf over the finial. ‘When necessary.’

‘You might try being quiet around here sometimes’, she suggested, finishing her descent. ‘Have a bit of consideration for your flatmate. You’ve been running him positively ragged, haven’t you?’ she accused. ‘Poor thing. He didn’t even wake up when I was in dropping off some biscuits. Just laid on the sofa sleeping like the dead.’

Sherlock’s eyes widened and his breath caught, and he was dashing up the stairs before she had finished speaking.

‘Sherlock’, Mrs Hudson complained as he thumped away above her, ‘that’s—’ Her grumbling ‘Ohh’ was lost beneath his footfalls.

He flung the door wide to find John just sitting up in surprise. But for the exhaustion clear in his face and movements, it could have been the first moment Sherlock had seen John, and he blinked to resolve one image from the other: the fresh new wonder from the familiar and worn.

‘If you’re going to rest, do it on your plant’, Sherlock admonished.

‘I just sat down for a minute.’

Sherlock huffed, kicked the door shut behind him, and hung his coat on the rack. ‘And when was that?’ he asked. He turned back to see John looking at his watch, clearly surprised.

‘Not long’, John started. At Sherlock’s look, he conceded, ‘A couple hours ago.’

‘A couple of hours during which you could have been soaking up nutrients.’ Sherlock stopped short of the full litany he had settled into over the past few weeks, omitting the energy that John could have both saved and replenished and the time he was potentially cheating himself of.

‘Cold out?’ John asked. ‘I’ll make you some tea. Warm you up a bit.’

Sherlock didn’t tell John to sit and save his strength—they’d had that argument enough times. Instead he went to the window to watch as the late afternoon sky rapidly darkened, the sun giving up its futile fight against the clouds that had hung louring over London most of the day. By the time John handed him a steaming cup, the predicted storm had arrived.

It wasn’t a real snow, not even by recent London standards, just a few odd flakes coming down with a traffic-halting wall of sleet. But it was snow, there, just on the other side of the windowpane, held at bay by nothing more than a thin sheet of glass. Occasional gusts brought ice pelting against the window, the brittle tap-tap-tapping like a skeletal hand trying to break through. It was as if Nature itself were trying to force its way into the flat, reaching deathly claws into the warmth they maintained there, trying to grasp John and steal him away. _Was this the winter I’d hoped for, only for the sake of a pair of gloves?_

John stood just behind him, arms wrapped around his pot as he watched the storm, too. Sherlock closed the drapes and moved to adjust the thermostat. John continued to stare at the window.

‘Thank you', he said quietly.

‘Save your thanks until I find a way to hold winter at bay’, Sherlock groused. ‘So much for global warming.’

John moved slowly to place his pot on the coffee table. ‘I owe you so much’, he said. ‘If you’d never planted the seed, I wouldn’t be alive. Or if you’d tossed it out, fed it to birds, I could have come up through some crack in the pavement, been trampled before I’d even flowered.’ He faced Sherlock. ‘I’ve lived because of you.’

‘And you’re dying because I can’t think of a way to save you.’

‘I don’t expect you to save me. You’ve already given me one life.’

 _Moments_ , Sherlock thought. _I’ve given you moments._ And that simply wasn’t enough for John, who wanted to really be a doctor, who wanted to see the world, wanted to solve crimes and write stories about them and live. Just live. _I haven't given you nearly enough._

‘Get some rest, John. You’re turning blue.’


	23. The Impossible

Days passed, too quickly becoming weeks. Sherlock continued to read, research, draw on various contacts, never ceasing in his quest for a way to keep John. John was still alive, but he spent nearly all of his time on his plant now. He still rose every morning to make Sherlock a breakfast, still spent some time sitting in his chair, reading his medical texts or one of the many volumes on botany and folk tales that Sherlock had lying about, but he began to fade after only a few hours. He saved as much energy as he could for going out on cases with Sherlock.

At John’s insistence, Sherlock had continued to take cases. He handled as much as he could remotely, as it were, only going out when he could no longer avoid it. John always went on Sherlock’s lapel now and Lestrade several times asked after him. Sherlock ignored his questions, ignored the glances at his ever-present bachelor’s button, and ignored, too, the querying looks at John’s sudden appearance when he hadn’t been around moments before. He didn’t consider it reckless; Lestrade wasn’t a bad detective but no one, not even Mycroft, would ever have deduced what John was. John was not just improbable; he was impossible.

Sherlock had even broken down and mentioned the situation to Mycroft. He would not ask for help, not again, but if Mycroft had some insight, some suggestion to offer… But all he had were comfortless platitudes. ‘All lives end.’ _A_ _s if I were ignorant of the simple facts of biology!_ Of course John would die, but not yet. Not now.

Sherlock was lying on the sofa considering an Italian variant to the Rapunzel tale when Lestrade materialized beside him.

‘…doesn’t always hear the doorbell’, John was explaining.

‘Yeah, I’ve noticed’, Lestrade replied. ‘You awake?’ he asked

‘What is it now?’ Sherlock asked, hoping it wasn’t something John felt was worth investigating so he would not have to leave his real work.

But it was worth investigating. Sherlock had read of the first four thefts in the papers, annoyed that more details of the case hadn’t been published; he was sure he could solve it if only he had all of the relevant facts. At another time, he would have gone out and found those facts for himself, to dangle before the police the solution they were overlooking. He hadn’t gone because of John.

Lestrade described to him the fifth in the string of high-rise robberies. Just like the ones that had gone before, an office had been opened in the morning to find important papers gone and a calling card in their place. Not a shred of evidence beyond that: no prints, no alarms set off, not a blip on a single security camera. And now, in addition to having nothing to go on, Lestrade had a variety of his superiors breathing down his neck. The last theft had been from an engineering firm, and the stolen the documents related to a project sensitive enough that he had been told plainly, ‘It doesn’t matter to you what they’re about; you just find them before anyone finds out they’ve gone missing.’

So Lestrade was asking once again, ‘Will you come?’, and John was already putting his coat on and handing Sherlock his.

‘No need for you to come, John’, he tried. ‘Nothing that will require a medical man, I’m sure.’

‘That’s OK. I’ve nothing else on for the day.’

Sherlock turned to Lestrade. ‘I’ll start with the engineers’ office, then stop by the Yard to see what you have on the previous thefts.’ Lestrade understood his dismissal and left.

When John started to follow right behind him, Sherlock grabbed his arm and shut the door. ‘No.’

John nodded. ‘I’ll get my vial.’

‘Not that way, either’, Sherlock said, turning away to fuss with his scarf.

‘But—‘

‘It’s just fact gathering, John. Boring. Hardly enough to occupy me, let alone the both of us.’

‘You’re going to be checking out their security systems. You might want a second person on hand. Plus, you might need someone small to get where you can’t go.’

‘No.’

John planted himself in front of the door as Sherlock reached for the handle.

 _Damn that look._ Hopeful, pleading, and more than Sherlock could say no to a third time. He shook his head and went to the window to get John’s pot. John looked questioningly at him.

‘The buttonhole isn’t enough anymore; you know it isn’t. We’re bringing this or neither of us is going.’

‘Don’t you think that will attract attention?’John asked.

‘No more than the skull ever did.’ Sherlock smirked.

John hesitated a moment, then opened the door to let Sherlock through.

 

It took Sherlock twenty-six hours and forty-seven minutes to be truly grateful that he’d brought John along that day and the next. It was at that moment that John asked a simple question: ‘Why haven’t you been checking places like the boiler rooms and mechanical areas? Someone could have got in through a service door.’

‘I’ve checked the mechanical facilities in all three buildings so far. Haven’t you been paying attention?’ His lack of progress was evident in the cross tone of his voice.

‘I never saw you pass any of the cameras in those areas’, John replied. ‘And yes, I’ve been paying attention. I even mentioned it to Jack just now, and he said he hadn’t seen you in the mechanical area either.’

‘Jack?’

‘The guard you left me sitting with?’

‘Oh. Well, then neither of you was paying attention, because I did, in fact, make a thorough check of both the basement and the sub-basement. Nothing.’

John had stopped. Sherlock looked back at him, then around for someplace that John could discretely morph.

‘We were paying attention, Sherlock’, John insisted. ‘We never saw you in either place. But you were off-camera for—‘ John shrugged ‘—ten minutes? We thought you’d stopped to use the gents or something.’

‘When, John? When _exactly_ didn’t you see me?’ Sherlock walked back several steps and stared intently at John as he thought back.

‘It was after you’d been to the IT suite. You passed a series of stairwell cameras, then nothing.’

Sherlock stood very still while his brain took off. He’d searched the basements. He’d run checks on the security systems. He’d even disassembled several cameras in each building, looking for anything that might have blocked or interfered with signals. The cameras, the systems, the rooms they watched over had all been secure. Of course, he couldn’t walk into the walls to check the wiring…

‘Come along, John’, Sherlock said, grabbing him by the elbow and twirling him around. ‘I have a little job for you. A _very_ little job.’

A job that John performed admirably. Tucked into Sherlock’s pocket, barely two centimetres tall, John was easily held next to a gap between wires and plaster and just as easily slipped through the gap, thinning himself to barely anything at all to do so. And when Sherlock heard his description of what lay behind the wall, the break in the circuit that sent the camera’s picture elsewhere and other wires that brought another signal in, he knew just what to look for next.

It was a long night’s work, but by dawn Sherlock had all of the pieces of the puzzle and knew where each one fit. It only remained to text Lestrade the name and address of the man behind it all. That done, Sherlock washed his face, put on a fresh shirt, and gathered up his coat and scarf. He would easily reach this man’s office a good fifteen minutes before Lestrade. Plenty of time to get to know the brain behind this rather artful operation.

He was gone so quickly, John hadn’t realized that he was leaving. He sprouted up from his plant and hurried to the window barely in time to see Sherlock stepping into a cab.

‘Sherlock!’ he called, but it was pointless to yell from this distance and through the layer of glass besides. He turned to the desk where Sherlock had been working all night, and his gaze caught on the still-open laptop. On the screen was the photo of neatly-attired man of early middle age, the accompanying biographical sketch naming him Kent Moore, an important figure in southern England’s security systems market. A few moments looking over the notes and scribbles strewn about gave John a clear enough picture of where Sherlock had gone.

He dressed quickly and bundled up as best he could, still wrapping his scarf about his neck as he ran down the stairs.

 

Sherlock was leaning against the wall of a low, modern office building, small clouds of his breath lingering in the freezing air before him. The street wasn’t busy yet, just a few early risers making their bleary-eyed ways to their offices. On seeing a cab pull up and discharge a particular gentleman, Sherlock shouldered himself away from the thick glass, but he waited until the cab had pulled away and the man was halfway across the pavement to the bank of doors before taking a step toward him.

‘Mr. Moore’, he called out. ‘You’re into the office early this morning.’

‘Always am’, the man replied. ‘Enterprise Security doesn’t sleep on the job. And I don’t sleep while there’s business to be done.’ He looked more closely at Sherlock. ‘Do I know you?’

Sherlock smiled almost pleasantly. ‘No, but I know you. You’re the man to watch in the security systems industry. The man who created Enterprise Security, one of the government’s most trusted contractors.’ Moore drew himself up a bit taller and looked rather pleased.

‘That’s right’, he said. ‘We provide complete CCTV and alarm systems to over a third of the government buildings in the Metropolitan area, more than any other company.’ He paused, smiling, assessing Sherlock. ‘But you knew that.’

‘Yes’, Sherlock replied, taking a few slow steps toward Moore. ‘I also know that you used to head The Excelsior Group, another major provider of security systems, particularly in the City. And that The Excelsior Group has changed hands—and names—twice in the past four years. Similar to the restructuring that’s taken place over the years at Falcon Security, Perfection Detection, and Diamond Alarms, all companies once lead by you, and now maintained by your associates.’ Moore’s countenance had begun to darken, his smile slipping down his face. ‘So that, in fact’, Sherlock continued, ‘you, and the men and women who answer to you, actually provide security systems to—what? Just over half of the companies and office buildings in London? Including LRM Engineering, Tate & Jacoby, Tower 42…’ Sherlock ticked off some of the recently robbed locations on his hand. ‘It must be hard knowing that your systems failed all of those very trusting clients.’

‘No system installed by Enterprise, or any other company I _might_ have been affiliated with, has ever failed’, Moore asserted stiffly. ‘Now—‘

‘Oh, no; they’ve never failed you, certainly’, Sherlock broke in, continuing his slow progress forward. ’Never failed to bring you all of the data you needed, never failed to link smoothly with your own systems, allowing you to override them whenever and however you wanted, with no one ever the wiser. You even used good old-fashioned hardwiring to get the job done, hidden deep in the walls, so that no one could detect any wireless signals where they shouldn’t have been.’ Sherlock was now just a metre from Moore. He clasped his hands behind his back and looked down his nose at the man, already mentally preparing the delivery of his deductions to Lestrade, whose car he saw approaching from the far end of the street. ‘Clever.’

‘You must be Sherlock Holmes’, Moore said, squaring himself against Sherlock‘s stance.

‘Must I?’ Sherlock asked, fractionally surprised.

‘I’ve heard about you. Heard what you’re capable of.’

‘Where would you hear about me?’

‘Oh, your name’s come up. ’ Moore grinned darkly. ‘You’ve got a fan.’

‘And you’ve got about twenty years in a maximum security prison in your future.’

Moore looked around at the scattering of people on the pavement as he appeared to consider that remark. ‘No’, he said pleasantly, looking back to Sherlock. ‘I don’t think I do. ’ And even as Sherlock saw the change in his face and moved to protect himself from the blow he knew would come, Moore brought his briefcase up in a high, wide swing. Sherlock jumped back, brought an arm up, but not soon enough, and the case crashed into the side of his head. Moore took a step backward, throwing the case at Sherlock as he did so. While Sherlock shielded himself, Moore turned and ran.

‘Sherlock!’ John had just emerged from another cab several metres behind Sherlock, and he dashed toward his friend. But Sherlock was already in pursuit, his long strides bringing him almost to Moore even as Lestrade brought his car to a screeching halt and jumped out. His declaration of ‘Police!’ only brought trouble with it, though, as Moore, now confronted with three pursuers—one wielding a warrant card—grabbed a woman he’d nearly collided with, swung around, and produced a gun.

‘Don’t make me, Holmes.’

Sherlock and John both stopped dead. Moore backed away, darting glances behind him, and quickly had his back to the building. Lestrade raised placating hands and urged, ‘Put it down and let her go; you don’t want to do this. You do not want to do any of this’, but by now Moore had worked himself to the corner of the building. With a swift look down the alley, he stabbed the gun against the back of the woman’s head. She opened her mouth in a soundless scream, her eyes begging deliverance. Sherlock inched toward them as Lestrade repeated, ‘Just let her go.’

The gunshot sounded; Moore threw the woman away from himself, disappearing around the corner; Sherlock sprang forward; people began screaming and running; and Lestrade began a litany of ‘No, no’, as he ran to the woman’s body. John was frozen for an instant, staring at the body, but then he saw: no blood, and he discerned the other sound that had been one with the shot: shattering glass. The rear window was gone from Lestrade’s car, the woman wasn’t dead, and John was flying after Sherlock.

Sherlock was younger and fitter than Moore and could quickly chase him down, but Moore had a gun, so Sherlock would need his brain more than his feet now. He knew every street and alleyway, every rooftop and recess of London. As he ran, slow enough to keep Moore a safe distance ahead of him, he saw potential paths before him, the routes that would bring them together, but none where the gun wouldn’t give Moore the upper hand. Elevation—he needed elevation.

Letting Moore run on, Sherlock slowed as he approached a fire escape. A jump and he caught the lowest rung, brought it down, and started to climb. It was only then that he saw John, realized that he had, as always, followed Sherlock. But he had already fallen behind in the modest distance they had covered, already looked faded and worn and small.

‘You fool! Go back!’

‘He's got a gun, Sherlock.’ John wasted no energy on the pretence of looking winded, but still his voice sounded strained and weak.

‘Yes, John; I had noticed.’ Sherlock continued to climb, eager to reach the roof and resume his pursuit from above. ‘Stay there.’

‘But—’

Sherlock paused on the last landing to call down to John, ‘When he realises we’re not still chasing him, he’ll think this way is clear and double back. You can’t let him get through.’

That would keep John there. He would stand sentinel to guard against the chance of Moore getting back to the road where there were bystanders to be used or hurt. Without another look back, Sherlock climbed the last ladder and hit the roof running. Three stories below, John crouched beneath the fire escape to do as Sherlock had bid him.

Sherlock crossed the gaps between buildings with nearly the ease that he crossed the streets below. He knew where Moore would go: his colleagues at the recently renamed SafeStar were closest and his best—only—hope of escaping. And so Sherlock raced across the rooftops to get there ahead of his quarry, to position himself in time.

But Moore never came. Sherlock watched and waited, knowing how long it would take for him to arrive, but the corner around which he should have come remained void. He felt the seconds ticking by in his veins, waited, thought of all the other places Moore could have gone. And then, in one heart-stopping moment, he knew.

He cursed at his folly and raced back to John.

 

John held himself very still. He pressed himself against the wall, tried to be invisible there, and hoped he would have the energy it took to strike out and disarm Moore if he came close enough. It took only moments before he heard his chance to find out stalking toward him. Turning to look, he saw the pistol raised and ready.

John stood away from the wall to face the approaching menace. Moore glanced at the roofs as he walked, moving cautiously, trying to calm his still-ragged breath. He looked ready to throw himself against the wall at the slightest sound.

He stopped five metres from John.

‘You must be the new sidekick’, he said on a steadier breath. ‘Pay well, does he?’

‘He doesn’t have to pay me’, John stated. ‘I'm his friend.’

‘Even better. I’m sure I wouldn’t let a friend of mine bark orders at me like that, though.’ He paused, anticipating John’s reaction to the mockery, but John never moved. ‘You know, he shouldn’t have yelled quite so loud’, Moore adding confidingly. ‘I wouldn’t have doubled back if he hadn’t suggested it. But since you had split up, well— No offence, but, I assumed you’d be the easier target. The sidekick always is.’ John remained unresponsive to his taunts.

Moore gestured with the gun. ‘You hear those sirens? You know what they mean?’

‘They mean that you’re going to jail.’

‘They mean that I’m going to need a hostage in a couple of minutes. Interested in the job?’

John took an instinctive step backward, then two forward. ‘Yes’, he said firmly.

‘You’re eager.’ Moore adjusted his aim warily.

‘Better me than someone else.’ _Someone with a life to live._

Moore chuckled. ‘The heroic type. I like that. So, how shall we do this?’

John slowly raised his hands. ‘You’re the one with the gun.’

‘Sensible, too. You don’t often see that in heroes.’

Some of the sirens had stopped close by. Against the wail of more distant ones still converging was now the sound of doors slamming and officers shouting.

‘Sounds like it’s time for you to join me over here. Slow and steady.’

John was sure that slow was the only speed he was capable of at this point. Steady was questionable, but he walked without hesitation toward the gun pointed at his chest. He was two metres away and Moore was just raising his left arm to reach out to John when he made his move.

Impossibly, his body worked. With all of the energy left in him, he stretched his arm out to cross the distance between them, grabbed the gun, and pulled. John saw the shock on Moore’s face, but that shock was all he achieved. He was too weak, too light, and his pull against Moore’s grip on the gun only served to unbalance John himself. He stumbled forward, falling nearly into Moore’s outstretched arms.

As Moore tumbled backward beneath him, John saw that his expression had changed to horror. John cried out as Moore repeatedly struck his viney limb with the gun. He recoiled from the pain, gave himself a hand again, and pushed away. He rolled once and came to rest with his back against the wall.

Moore clawed his way to his feet, gaping at John. ‘What— What?’ He backed away, shakily brought his pistol up, and aimed.

 

Sherlock had just jumped to the top landing of the escape when he saw Moore raise the gun. Heard the Yarders just seconds away—too many seconds away—down the adjacent alley. Saw John huddled on the ground and knew that he would never be able to react in time, was too slow with the cold and his coming—

‘No!’ Sherlock’s cry tore from his throat as he threw himself over the railing. His aim was good—of course it was—and he fell to the ground just in front of John. And just in time.

He never had a chance to regain his feet after landing. The bullet’s force spun him sideways and he fell backwards, spinning still, his legs a tangle beneath him, his head slamming against the brick wall.

Sherlock had seen plenty of gunshot wounds, on both the dead and the dying. Seen a number of scars from them, too, those grotesque reminders of just how much damage a tiny bit of metal and a tinier bit of explosive could do to the human body. But he had never felt one of those metal bits tear into his own flesh, nor had he seen his blood leaving his body in such a way as it now did.

He tried to draw a breath, but he felt as if the wall beside him had tumbled down with him, lay heaped on his chest. He had a moment’s vision of John, eyes wide in his face, a grey bulk forming up behind him. Then it was only warm hands, a rush of breath, and darkness.


	24. Ever After

Hospitals, Sherlock knew, were specifically designed to hamper a patient’s recovery. There could be no other explanation for the beeping of biomonitors, the acrid sterility of alcohol and disinfectants, the harsh glare of fluorescent lights, and the garish cheer of nurses and visitors. Not to mention the drug-resistant microbes teeming on every surface. Therefore, on waking to three of those things, he had a good idea of where he was, especially after factoring in the muted pain slowly creeping into his awareness.

A quick look over his body and an internal assessment led him to certain conclusions: 1) He was concussed. 2) He’d lost blood. 3) He’d been unconscious some time, although it was hard to say for how long. As soon as his brain emerged from its current haze, he’d have a better estimate. Which brought him to: 4) He’d been given some potent painkillers.

The miserable lighting and concussion combined to make sustained visual investigation of his surroundings unpleasant, so he laid still, eyes closed, ears gathering what data they could, and set about recalling why he was thus situated. By the time the memory came to him—fragments of sight and sound coalescing into the whole tale of confronting Moore, chasing him, leaving John behind with hopes for his safety—the fourth hospital peril was just entering his room.

Sherlock recognized the step by the time the visitor had reached his bed: Mrs Hudson. He considered feigning continued sleep, but the weight of his questions was greater than his fear of excessive cheer and get-well wishes. He opened his eyes. And felt instantly that the bullet had gone through his heart instead of merely tearing a gash along his arm.

_John._

‘Sherlock?’ Mrs. Hudson whispered loudly. ‘Are you awake again?’ _Again?_ She looked nervous, fearful even, more so than Sherlock’s assessment of his injuries would justify. ‘Can you hear me, love? Are you feeling better now? You were in a sorry state this morning.’

Sherlock stared at the planter she had just rested on the bedside table.

‘It does look dreadful, doesn’t it?’ she said, folding the paper sack she’d carried it in. ‘Didn’t know if I should actually bring it, but you were so insistent.’ She picked it up and moved to set it on the floor. ‘We’ll get you a new—’

‘No!’ Sherlock croaked, hand shooting out to her.

‘Ooh!’ she exclaimed, setting the planter back on the table. ‘Oh, honestly, Sherlock. You can’t want to look at this poor shrivelled thing?’ She considered it, hands drawing up the brown and drooping leaves. ‘I don’t know what happened to it. It seemed to be doing well enough a few days ago.’

Sherlock wanted to shut his eyes, his mind, to what he saw, but he couldn’t look away. The stalk that had borne its sole flower— _John!_ —no longer standing proudly above its nest of green, but draped now over withered leaves, all of it brown, dry— _How long have I been out?_ —hanging limply over the pot’s edge. Sherlock raised himself slightly, regretted it, fell back.

‘Give it to me’, he whispered.

‘There’s nothing you can do for it now’, Mrs. Hudson said, patting his hand. ‘Past hope, I’m afraid.’

‘Give it to me’, he commanded, trying to drown out her words. Startled, she hesitated, but lowered the planter onto the bed and into the crook of his uninjured left arm. Sherlock closed his eyes, steadied himself, and looked into the pot. Leaves, stalk, a pitiful heap of limp, lifeless brown. No trace of the flower that had once been.

John had not even made it back to his plant, had passed from his brief existence without even the comfort of his leaves around him. Whatever Sherlock had ever been or done or felt, his life at that moment was just one thing: pain. A pain so great that all of the drugs in the hospital could never take it away.

‘He never made it home’, Sherlock breathed out.

‘What, dear?’

‘He never made it home’, he tried, louder, voice a broken rasp through his constricted throat. ‘John. He…’

‘Now don’t you blame this on him, Sherlock. You know he took good care of that thing for you.’ _For himself._ ‘It’s not like two days without water should have killed it. Probably all those chemicals you were forever mixing up and dumping on it.’ _I was trying to save him!_ She tutted disapprovingly. ‘Should have kept the chrysanthemum I gave you. That’s a hardy plant.’ _I failed._

Before he could stop her, she’d grabbed up the pot and placed it on the floor, kicking it under the bed for good measure. She addressed him sternly:

‘When John gets back here, I don’t want to hear you say a word to him about it. The only reason he’s not been home to water that thing is because he wouldn’t leave you here alone.’ She straightened the sheet over him. ‘Probably took everything that nice Detective Inspector Lestrade could do to get him to go down to the cafeteria just now and get some food into him’, she continued more softly.

Sherlock’s eyes grew wider as she spoke. He wanted to repeat all of her words out loud, ask her if they could be true, jump up and run through the halls until he found John himself so he could believe those words, those beautiful words that said that John was still alive. But his thoughts were running faster than even his speech just then and all that came out of his gaping mouth was ‘Food? Back? John?’

‘Passed them at the lift on my way up. The Inspector was just taking John for a quick bite, he said. He’s been so worried—John, that is—forgetting to feed himself, he has been. Not that Inspector Lestrade wasn’t worried about you, too’, she went on, ‘but he did have enough sense to go home last night. I suppose he has a wife to go home to, does he?’ she mused, eyes sparkling just a bit.

Sherlock had caught up with her chatter just enough to protest ‘John never forgets to feed himself’ when the door opened to reveal Lestrade and—

‘John.’

The man was instantly at Sherlock’s side, grinning down at him and reaching to lay a hand on his. In his focus on Sherlock, John forgot the small paper sack he was carrying and it fell onto the bed. John stared at Sherlock, glanced at the sack, then looked back to his friend.

‘I’ve got a sandwich’, he said.

‘You were hungry’, Sherlock replied, satisfied wonder in his voice. John nodded. ‘Your hands are warm’, Sherlock noted, a grin spreading over his face.

‘Yeah’, John puffed out, pleased, and squeezed Sherlock’s hand. They smiled at each other like it was the only thing in the world either had ever thought to do.

Mrs Hudson looked fondly at her tenants, then turned to see Lestrade staring, open-mouthed, first at Sherlock, then at John. She cleared her throat gently and, putting her arm through his, said, ‘You know, Inspector, I think I could do with a sandwich myself. Perhaps you could show me where that cafeteria is?’

Lestrade came round and chuckled at the twinkle in her eye. ‘Yeah. Right this way. We’ll be back in a bit, you two’, he called as the door swung shut behind them.

‘How?’ Sherlock asked, eyes still fixed on his flatmate.

John shrugged. ‘I just felt it. I saw you jump down and I felt it. And then I felt everything.’ His eyes widened. ‘Kinda hurt. But seeing you…’

‘Me?’ Sherlock breathed, eyes bright.

‘Yeah’, John affirmed. ‘You did it.’

‘You did it, John. You felt it.’

‘I wouldn’t have felt it if you hadn’t, well… shown me. Done what you did.’

Sherlock found himself in the peculiar state of not quite following the conversation. ‘Shown you?’ he queried, instantly embarrassed to be parroting John’s words. _Must be concussed worse than I thought._ He rephrased: ‘What did I show you?’

John smiled wider. ‘Love. Your love. And I felt it.’

Sherlock frowned immediately. ‘My l—. What are you talking about?’ He snapped. ‘You needed to love, not me.’

‘But I couldn’t, right? We misinterpreted the letter, I think. I didn’t need to love. I needed to feel someone love me. When you jumped down and saved me, got in the way so I wouldn’t be shot… Well, you wouldn’t have done that if you didn’t love me. And right when I felt it—’

‘John, jumping off of a fire escape does not equal love’, Sherlock declared, voice cooled from its warmth of a minute ago. ‘Neither does getting in the way of a bullet. People do that all the time; police officers, soldiers. That man you’re supposed to be, that army doctor, he probably died doing just that. Doesn’t mean he loved anyone. Probably didn’t even know the name of the person whose life he was saving.’

John looked confused. ‘That’s not why you did it? You don’t love me?’

Sherlock pursed his lips and looked at the IV line where it went into his hand.

‘I just thought…’ John started. ‘Felt…’ The two remained in silence measured only by the electronic echo of Sherlock’s heart beeping forth from the monitor.

With a deep, shaking breath, John slowly started to remove his hand from Sherlock’s, but Sherlock held fast.

‘I didn’t say I didn’t’, he said quietly, still looking away. ‘I just said that one thing does not necessarily mean the other. I was merely pointing out the flaw in your logic. Really, John, I should think that you would have learned a bit more from me over these last few months. What sort of doctor will you make if you can’t master simple cause-and-effect reasoning like that?’

As Sherlock’s voice grew louder, John’s grin grew back, ending more brilliant than it had been. He squeezed Sherlock’s hand once again, then let go and seated himself on the bed by Sherlock’s knees. He took up the forgotten paper sack and extracted the sandwich.

‘Want some?’ he asked, waving half toward Sherlock. ‘Avocado, Romaine, and hummus.’ He chuckled at Sherlock’s look of disgust.

‘Don’t think my stomach’s up to solid food yet. And when it is, I’ll be sure to order the roast beef.’

John bit into his sandwich and chewed thoroughly, his enjoyment evident. He swallowed and said: ‘I like taste.’

‘You like _the_ taste’, Sherlock corrected.

‘That, too’, John nodded, taking another bite. ‘This is good. Getting it this way is a lot more enjoyable than soaking it up through your roots.’ Sherlock smiled and began to chuckle but stopped short when John froze.

‘What?’

John swallowed the bite he’d been chewing. ‘She brought it, yeah?’

‘Under the bed’, Sherlock replied. John dropped the sandwich and slid down, ducking his head under the bed. ‘I almost told her not to—said you were delirious and she should ignore you.’ He gasped, then stood up, pot in hand, a stricken look on his face.

‘I’m dead.’

Sherlock burst out laughing. John’s face lit with realization of what he’d said, and he had just begun to giggle when Sherlock began to choke. John rushed to pour him water from the bedside pitcher and helped him to drink some down.

‘Yeah, OK’, he said, holding the straw at his friend’s lips. ‘I’m not dead. But my plant is.’ He looked thoughtful. ‘You’d think I would have felt it.’

‘You did feel it’, Sherlock wheezed out. John prompted him to another pull from the straw. ‘Didn’t you say you “felt everything”? And it hurt?’

‘Yeah.’ John considered. ‘Maybe that is what hurt. This’—he looked down at his withered former self—‘happening. Can’t imagine what it would have felt like if I’d been on my stalk when that happened.’

‘Don’t think about it’, Sherlock snapped quietly. ‘You’ll never have to know now.’

John took a last look before tucking the pot out of sight under the bed again. He reseated himself and resumed eating. Sherlock watched him, undoubtedly unaware of the soft, fond look he wore.

One half of his sandwich gone, John paused, took in Sherlock’s look, and spoke.

‘I do, too, you know.’

Sherlock roused himself, perplexity taking over his expression. ‘Do what?’ He hated having to ask.

John bent over to peek between the triangles of bread, scrutinizing the contents of his sandwich.

‘The… Well…’ He straightened, pushed the sandwich back together, and took a large bite. ‘I’d jump off a fire escape, too’, he mumbled through the mouthful.

Sherlock blinked, then yielded again to his fascination for the IV tubing.

Eyes fixed on the saline drip, he mumbled back, ‘You’re an idiot.’

 

The End  


* * *

Chapter 25 contains notes on the fairy tales referenced and adapted throughout the text.  


And links to gorgeous artwork!  



	25. Links & Notes

**Links**

The fabulous [middayxiansheng](http://middayxiansheng.livejournal.com/) has provided a Chinese translation of this story (still in progress at this posting). You can find it [here](http://221dnet.211.30i.cn/bbs/forum.php?mod=viewthread&tid=2299&extra=&page=1). (ID: VIPGUEST; passcode: 221dnet)

Also, two darling individuals created artwork:

  * [Art](http://i245.photobucket.com/albums/gg56/middayxiansheng/FROMWHICHLOVEGROWS_S.jpg) by ClockWorkOrange
  * [Art](http://browse.deviantart.com/#/art/From-Which-Love-Grows-324430615?hf=1) by hayamiyuu/速水悠 (also on [Tumblr](http://hayamiyuu.tumblr.com/post/27151757382/pixiv-from-which-love-grows-from) & [PIXIV](http://www.pixiv.net/member_illust.php?mode=medium&illust_id=28607343))



 I get giddy every time I think that my little story inspired their work.

* * *

**Notes**

Part of the fun of writing this piece was referencing and adapting fairy tales along the way. Some of those following on the [Kink Meme](http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/6487.html?thread=31142743#t31142743), where this story originated, seemed to have as much fun looking for the hidden references as I did inserting them. ~~For now, I will merely list the tales that I incorporated and that inspired me. I leave you to hunt them out for yourselves. (Special kudos to anyone that can find The Three Bears and/or The Emperor's New Clothes.)~~ Updated: references made clear.

  * [The Darning Needle](http://www.andersen.sdu.dk/vaerk/hersholt/TheDarningNeedle_e.html) (chapter 4, allusion to case of Mr Jenkins the tailor, because it spoke to me of Sherlock's arrogance that held him apart from others and his failure to recognize his very lonely state)
  * [The Emperor's New Clothes](http://www.andersen.sdu.dk/vaerk/hersholt/TheEmperorsNewClothes_e.html) (chapter 23, the security system, which wasn't really there after all, just Kent Moore laughing in the face of those that trusted him—a mighty stretch, I admit)
  * [The Enchanted Canary](http://www.mythfolklore.net/andrewlang/096.htm) (chapter 12, the fire in Chef Gans' kitchen and the canary that caused it)
  * [Fair, Brown, & Trembling](http://classiclit.about.com/library/bl-etexts/fairytale/bl-fair.htm) (chapter 14, end, combined with the canon SH story [The Speckled Band](http://168.144.50.205/221bcollection/canon/spec.htm))
  * [The Fire-bird](http://www.surlalunefairytales.com/firebird/stories/firebirdvasalissa.html) (chapter 18, [Ms Siddons](http://www.artble.com/artists/joshua_reynolds/paintings/mrs_siddons_as_the_tragic_muse) and her apple pie; Sherlock takes a memento from this case, her phoenix earrings, as he did Irene Adler's picture in canon. Adler was a great beauty and beat Holmes; Siddons only missed beating him because he was unlike other men in not eating the pie, which made it all vaguely Adler-esque to me)
  * [Goldilocks & the Three Bears](http://www.dltk-teach.com/rhymes/goldilocks_story.htm) (chapters 4, 5, & 12, in which Mycroft's look is (too) hard, Mrs Hudson's is (too) soft, and John's is just right; devious and obtuse, I admit)
  * [Hansel & Gretel](http://theliterarylink.com/gretel.html) (referenced only in Greta Voigt's name)
  * [Jack & the Beanstalk](http://www.authorama.com/english-fairy-tales-15.html) (chapter 22, John's seed is mentioned as being 'the size and shape of a bean' and, well, it's a magic bean! I hope someone noticed that John 'prefers slightly acidic soil', which is how I imagine living with Sherlock must be if you're a plant.)
  * [The Little Match Girl](http://www.andersen.sdu.dk/vaerk/hersholt/TheLittleMatchGirl_e.html) (chapter 19, in which the little homeless girl Danika, whose name means morning star, is killed in a fire; in the story, the little match girl is told by her grandmother that, when a star falls down, a soul goes up to god)
  * [Little Red Riding Hood](http://www.pitt.edu/~dash/type0333.html#perrault) (chapter 18, the mentioned story of Derry Reid & Ulric Faolan—both her names mean red, his mean wolf)
  * [Pinocchio](http://www.gutenberg.org/files/500/500-h/500-h.htm) (John's wish is to be real so that he can be the things he is supposed to be and participate fully in life)
  * [Puss in Boots](http://w8r.com/the-colorful-story-book/puss-in-boots) (chapter 6, the escaped cougar—who is owned by a cougar—put into booties when stolen; Carabas is the name Puss in Boots gave to his master)
  * [The Red Shoes](http://www.andersen.sdu.dk/vaerk/hersholt/TheRedShoes_e.html) (chapter 11, DeRodesko means The Red Shoes in Danish, squished together to create a last name; I swear I had a reason for using those addresses, but it escapes me after all this time. And yes, John met Clara en route.)
  * [Rumplestilskin](http://www.pitt.edu/~dash/grimm055.html) (chapter 8, the 'enigmatic, temperamental dwarf' that stole a baby)
  * [The Shoemaker & the Elves](http://www.authorama.com/grimms-fairy-tales-39.html) (chapter 7, in which John helps with the housework, _because I have always wanted housekeeping elves of my own!_ )
  * [The Teapot](http://www.andersen.sdu.dk/vaerk/hersholt/TheTeapot_e.html) (chapter 22, the teapot in the crime scene photos, not John's accidental breaking of the kettle. The teapot is proud and thinks of what it has that others don't and ignores its defects as others will talk of those; that sounded like Sherlock and his situation to me. And later, when the broken teapot is repurposed as a planter, it thinks, 'And the bulb lay in the earth, inside of me, and it became my heart, my living heart, a thing I never had before.' I think that part explains itself.)
  * [The Three Little Pigs](http://w8r.com/the-colorful-story-book/three-little-pigs) (chapter 15, the case brought by Mycroft)
  * [Thumbelina](http://www.andersen.sdu.dk/vaerk/hersholt/Thumbelina_e.html) (the entire story; the person from the plant)



During my research, I took an especial interest in the life of Hans Christian Andersen. Several references are made to his life, in particular his loves, as this story was about love.

  * Greta Voigt is surnamed for Riborg Voigt, one of Anderson's unrequited loves, perhaps the most dear, as he held a letter from her at his death, many years after falling in love with her
  * Harald Scharff of the Royal Danish Ballet was one of Andersen's many infatuations, referenced in chapter 7



  
I hope you enjoyed reading about our heroes and their cruel villain as much as I enjoyed the writing. Again, thank you, and I wish you all your own fairy tale endings and happily ever afters.


End file.
